


Cote d'Azur

by GraceBe



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Drama, F/M, Female Friendship, Romance, Summer Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2020-05-17 00:11:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 51,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19328929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraceBe/pseuds/GraceBe
Summary: Isobel & Violet take a trip to the south of France. As it turns a out a summer at the sea is full of surprises, love & intrigue.





	1. Tender is the Night

 

 

The night air smelled of the sea, oranges, and tobacco. It was heavy with the music of the small orchestra playing inside and the sound of giddy conversation. Isobel watched the other hotel guests from her place on the terrace and wondered if she was the only one who felt like a misfit. 

Behind her the waves crashed against the shore. A soft breeze caressed her hair and under different circumstances she would have enjoyed herself immensely. 

Many years ago she and Reginald had spent their second honeymoon in France. They had travelled the Loire Valley and had spent a week in the Provence. It was one of her fondest and romantic memories of her marriage. She remembered wine, long, love filled nights that were undeniably joined with the feeling of belonging to someone completely. All this seemed far away now, as if another woman had lived that life and she had only read about it in a novel.  

Everything about her past and present life felt strange these days. Only three weeks she had laughed if someone had told her she would travel to the French Riviera, to the Cote d’Azur as the French called it, to spend her time in a luxury hotel. She had only arrived this afternoon, her bags were not yet unpacked, and she still wasn’t sure she would stay. Deep inside she was restless, even scared, not that she wanted for anyone to notice it.   

The scenery, this evening felt surreal and she still wasn’t sure it wasn’t a dream. Perhaps she would wake up in her bed in Downton tomorrow morning and shake her head about the absurdity of it all... 

It wasn’t a dream. It may felt surreal, but it wasn’t a dream. It was nothing that would vanish with the rising of the sun. The tightness in her chest and the knot in her stomach were also real. What she saw through the open French doors was reality.

From her place at the balustrade she had the perfect view inside the hotel bar. Some of the hotel guests were inside, drinking, dancing, simply enjoying themselves as if nothing in this world could spoil their moment. Women wore flapper dresses and headpieces and most of the men were in black tie. The smoke from cigarettes filled the room and champagne flowed freely. Among them were people she knew well. Some she loathed, one she loved. 

Dickie Merton was dancing with a dark-haired beauty. She looked young and sophisticated without being a flapper. She reminded Isobel of Mary, but her face was rounder and her smile kinder. Dickie loved Mary like a daughter, because he never had one. Did he dance with that other woman because she reminded him of Mary? Or was it her beauty? Did he desire her? She had never taken him for a man who looked after younger women. It simply wasn’t his style, was it?  

Until three weeks ago she had thought to know him, to understand him and his motivations. She had thought of him as someone who was easy to read, but right now she didn’t even recognize him.  

It was time to tear her eyes away from him and his dancing partner, but it was difficult. She loved watching him, even now when he was dancing with someone else, a woman who could easily be her own daughter. He always moved so elegantly and self-assured on the dancefloor, while he struggled to do so when it came to giving orders or making decisions. 

It was either the heat or the effect of the champagne, but her mind wandered off from dancing to the last time she had seen Dickie. 

The night that had started it all. 

The night that had made her life more complicated. 

Unannounced he had come to her house in the middle of the night, desperate for her help, which had led to something she hadn’t bargained for when she had opened the door for him. Today the last traces, the reason for his visit at Crawley House were gone. Not one visible bruise or cut gave away what he had gone through that evening. She remembered her own panic when she had seen his injuries. They had made her vulnerable in a way she hadn’t expected and one tender touch had resulted in a kiss and the kiss had broken her every defence.   

 

She regretted nothing, but it hadn’t been wise to share her bed with him. If she hadn’t been carried away by her feelings for him, she probably wouldn’t be here now. She could have spared herself the heartache of watching him dancing and enjoying himself with another woman. 

Isobel sighed, turned away, and looked down to the beach that was lined with torches. A young couple shared a late night walk by the shore. The wind carried the woman’s laughter to her ear and Isobel watched with rising envy how the woman leaned against the man and kissed him. Weariness overwhelmed her and she decided to call it a night. Violet had already retreated to her room and she needed to do the same, before she drowned her sorrow with more champagne. 

One last time she looked inside the bar. Dickie and the dark haired beauty were drinking a cocktail and she laughed about something he was saying. Since when was he drinking martinis? He preferred whiskey or so he had told her many years ago. Bitterness filled her heart like poison and she left. 

She made a detour through the marbled foyer with its thick rugs and the heavy leather seats, hoping to avoid Dickie and his lovely companion. To her annoyance she saw Amelia and Larry Grey on their way to the elevator. They had put their heads together and spoke in hushed voices. Quickly and before they could spot her, she hid behind a pillar and waited until she heard the elevator doors closing behind them. 

Her dislike for the young couple knew no boundaries. Larry had ruined everything for her and Dickie. Everything he touched ended up poisoned and Amelia was the perfect addition to his malicious nature. The two were two sides of the same coin, fraudulent and arrogant. 

Had it really been a good idea to join Cousin Violet on this trip? Wouldn’t it have been better to stay at home to wait and see how things developed? Wasn’t she about to get involved in something beyond her control? 

She knew her thoughts were redundant, because she already was here and so were Dickie and his family. No, she couldn’t run away again. Violet would call her quitter, if she took flight just like that and she was many things, a lonely widow, an unhappy lover, and at this point angry with the world, but she was not a quitter. 

  
  


~~~~~~~~~

 

The Dowager Countess was standing on her balcony and breathed in the heavy air of the sticky late summer night. It wasn’t a climate she was used to or fond of. She preferred the damp English weather or the cold of the Russian winter to the mediterranien heat. But she knew she would have to get used to it rather sooner than later, because the task ahead of her deserved her full attention.

A rather mysterious adventure lay ahead of her. Perhaps it was her last one and perhaps she would regret taking the well-placed bait, but letting pass by the opportunity to make some people she cared for happy was not an alternative. 

It wasn’t only Cousin Isobel who needed her help. Violet had never understood how a woman who was as practical, determined, and intelligent as Isobel could be so daft when it came to matters of the heart. She was in love with Lord Merton, but she was too scared of his family to fight for her rightful place and so she kept telling herself living without him was the only way to go on. And Lord Merton himself? The man needed all the help he could get, if he didn’t want to end up in a small cottage near the village or even worse in the clutches of a mad American widow of the scale of Martha Levinson. The idea was even more atrocious and made her shutter despite the heat. 

The reason for her journey was a letter from Prince Kuragin. After he had left Downton for Paris she hadn’t expected to hear from him again, but she had been mistaken. About two weeks ago she had received a rather ominous message from him that had been too fascinating to ignore. What added to her excitement was the involvement of Lord Merton and his useless, greedy brood and a rather mysterious hotel guest. At dinner she had been sitting near the table of the Greys. The young woman that reminded her of someone, but Violet didn’t exactly know where and how to place her. She had seen the face before and she wasn’t the only one who was intrigued by her. Lord Merton and his son had paid the woman a lot more attention than any gentleman would under such circumstances. Other people would blame the hot climate and the wine, but Violet had seen enough of the world to know that more than simple lust was the trigger for the men’s behaviour. 

She chuckled when she remembered Isobel and her ruffled feathers when Dickie Merton asked the stranger for a dance. One glass of champagne and Isobel was as easy to read as a penny dreadful. Her mood had sunk like the titanic and she had fled the room as if the devil had chasen her away.   

“Is everything all right, Mylady?” Denker asked from the inside. 

“Yes, Denker, I’m fine. You can go now.” 

“Very well, Mylady. Good night!” 

“Good night.” Violet answered and waited until her maid was gone before she went inside. 

~~~~~~~

  
  


Unenthusiastically Isobel combed her long, heavy hair and stared at her reflection in the mirror. She usually had no problem to acknowledge her age, she had never been a vain person, but tonight she suddenly felt like counting the grey strays that had dared to creep in over the years. She had always admired Mary’s courage to cut her hair short. It was easier to handle, demanded less tiresome care, and caught everyone’s attention. 

Did Dickie even notice her? He hadn’t looked at her once. Had he pretended not to see her and Violet? Even if he wanted to ignore Isobel, how could one ignore the Dowager? Violet owned every room she entered. The mere idea of not acknowledging her sounded like pure blasphemy. 

But then he had been occupied with this young, beautiful creature and hadn’t paid attention to anything or anyone else. 

With a sigh she put her brush aside and decided to go to bed. She doubted she would be able to sleep though. Her body felt tired, but the heat and her overworking brain were keeping her restless. She was on her way to close the balcony door when she heard a soft knock at her door.

Sure it was Denker with a message from Violet, she opened the door and was in for a surprise. 

“Oh….” She blushed when she saw who her visitor was, but quickly managed to make a brave face. “I didn’t expect you.” Painfully aware of her appearance, her hair open, her feet bare, and her dressing gown, she hesitated to let him inside. 

“May I come in?” Dickie asked and looked nervously over his shoulder. She acknowledged his unease with an annoyed scoff and let him inside. 

“Shouldn’t you be knocking at someone else’s door?” she asked snipply once she had closed the door again. 

“I think I deserve that,” he stated friendly and without dignifying her sarcasm. “But my curiosity got the better of my good manners. May I ask why you are here?”

“I’m here with Lady Grantham. She asked me to come along. We arrived this afternoon.” 

“And that has nothing to do with time or what I told you the last time we… saw each other? 

“Not necessarily, no.” 

The blunt lie make him smile. “In other words you won’t be bothered, if I knock at someone else’s door tonight?” 

She crooked her eyebrow. “You are a free man. You can do as you please....,“ she paused and added, “Although…” 

“Although what?” 

“One might question the kind of… door.” 

His face become stony and he said, “You shouldn’t be here.” 

“Well, I am here and I will stay here.” 

“And I ask you to leave. Please.” 

“I won’t bother you,” she said with a shrug. “If you insist on frisking around some other woman’s skirts you can do so.” 

Her choice of words obviously amused him. He chuckled. “What an image to go by.” 

“I mean it. It’s none of my business.”

Her harsh tone sobered him up again and gave her a long look before he spoke again. “I think you could be in danger if you stayed here. I wasn’t joking when I told you about the kind of difficulties Larry has brought me in. I speak out of my concern for your safety.” 

“I could tell you weren’t joking,” she snapped back. “I was the one who stitched you up!”

“And I will always be grateful for it.” 

Again her answer was a raised eyebrow. Being grateful didn’t exactly describe what had transpired between them that night. He cleared his throat, but before he could add anything she asked. “Who is she and why are you courting her like some debutant on his first night out?” 

He folded his hands behind his back and moved across the room. 

“Her name is Natasha DeWinter. Mrs DeWinter is the widow of Arnaud DeWinter, a fabricant who died about a year ago. According to people who know it, she’s in want of a new husband.” 

“I see…. So, she’s the huntress and not the other way round.” 

“Not quite,” he admitted. “It is true that she is in search of a husband. She has the wish to marry, preferably to someone who can provide her a title, which…” he broke off, suddenly embarrassed. 

“Please, go on.”

Fearing what he was about to say could confirm her worst fears and therefore weaken her knees, she sank onto the edge of her bed. 

“Which seems the perfect solution for my monetary problems.” 

“So, you are on a business trip,” she concluded bitterly. “How much money are we talking about?” 

“Enough.” 

She shook her head, angry with him and Larry and the whole situation. “Could you be more precise?” 

He drew a deep breath. “I might have to sell the estate or at least a big part of it.” 

Glad, she was already sitting, she gasped. “What on earth…” He sank down next to her and took her hand. “I’m sorry, but I told you, he got involved with the wrong people and a lot of money is involved.” 

“Can’t he pay his debts for himself?” she asked exasperated. “He was old enough to lose it after all!” 

Dickie shrugged. “They would kill him, if he doesn’t pay, which he can’t…. As you can remember they’ve already left a lasting impression on me when they went after me.” 

She just nodded. “And so you go looking for a wife, preferable someone who’s rich enough to pay for Larry’s stupidity.” 

He shrugged, but said nothing. 

“If a woman does it, people call her a gold digger,” she said. 

“I can’t deny the irony of the situation.” He bent his head and stared to his feet. Overwhelmed by tenderness and the wish to comfort him, she ran her fingers through his short hair. 

“It’s silly, you know,” he said. “All my life I never had to worry about money and now that I’m finally old enough to get rid off the responsibility for it all, I have to ensure my family won’t lose it.” 

“Would it be so bad? To be rid off it?” she asked in a low voice. 

“Ten generations…,” was all he said. “Ten generations the estate was ours. I don’t want to be the one who loses it all.” He looked at her, somewhat tired. “Can you understand that?” 

She wasn’t sure she could. She had lived long enough among the Granthams to see the point of families like them, but she never had never been responsible for a community like theirs. She couldn’t imagine what he was going through or what the prospect of losing Cavenham meant for him. 

“I understand you,” she said and gave him an encouraging smile. “But I don’t like it.” 

“Me neither.” He smiled back at her and rose. “I should go. It’s late.” 

With her heart beating heavily in her chest she watched him crossing the room. She didn’t want him to leave, not now that he had opened up to her. It was insane to ask him to spend the night with her, but the question was out before she had gained control of her tongue. 

“Why don’t you stay?” 

Surprised by her offer he turned around. He watched her with bated breath as she approached him. She rolled up to her tiptoes to kiss him. At first tenderly and soft and then when he gave in with growing passion. 

“I really should go,” he mumbled against her forehead. “We shouldn’t do this. You deserve better.” 

“I can handle myself. Please stay. Please.” she whispered against his lips, before she snaked her arms around his neck to kiss him once more. 

  
  
  


**~****tbc****~**


	2. What a tangled web we weave

 

_**Downton, three weeks earlier** _

After a satisfying, but uneventful evening with a novel called "Gentlemen prefer Blondes", Isobel was on her way upstairs when she heard the frantic knocking against her front door. Irritated because it was almost midnight she hesitated. A visitor near the witching hour could only mean bad news. Since Matthew's death so many years ago, she always startled when the phone rang unexpectedly or someone knocked at her door when she didn't expect them. It was one of the deepest marks life had left her with and it wouldn't change until the day she died.

When the knocking increased and someone shouted her name, she finally opened the door just wide enough to see who was outside. The first thing she registered was the blood running down his cheek. She gasped when she realized the man was Dickie Merton. The collar of his white tie attire was smeared with more blood and he pressed a handkerchief against his temple. He was pale, trembling, and she instantly feared he would collapse.

"Dickie! What happened?" She pushed the door open and took his arm. "Did someone mug you?"

"Something like that," he mumbled.

"Come inside!" To steady him she placed his arm around her shoulders and led him into the drawing room where she made him sit down in his favourite chair. She quickly switched on the lights and took a closer look at his head wound.

"I have to call Doctor Clarkson," she said when she saw there were pieces of glass stuck in his skin. "And then we call Sergeant Willis."

"No Doctor and no police," he pleaded. "Please. It's not necessary!"

Isobel crooked her eyebrow. Was he embarrassed? Since when was Dickie someone who cared about what other people thought of him?

"It's the wrong moment to worry about your bruised ego. This is serious."

She straightened up, but he caught her wrist. His grip was much firmer than she had ever experienced it and it shocked her. With her eyes widened she looked at his hand around her wrist. "I mean it! Please, I know you can clean the wound just as good as Clarkson could! I didn't know where else to go!"

His words made her even more uneasy, but she didn't want to upset him. She nodded did her best to reassure him. "I'll have to get my medicine chest," she said. "Don't move."

He released her and she quickly went upstairs to get everything she needed out of her bathroom. It had been ages since she had taken care of someone who was injured. That her patient was her former fiance didn't make her task any easier. She considered to strengthen herself with a strong brandy, but dismissed the idea quickly when she returned to the drawing room and heard him groaning. She didn't want to lose any more time and she wasn't sure she wouldn't have to call for Doctor Clarkson after all.

"Will you tell me what happened?" she asked when she carefully removed the handkerchief.

"There were two of them. They waited for me behind my car and hit me with the bottle."

"What about your driver?" she asked while she rummaged around for a pincette.

"He had fallen asleep. He came to my help when he woke up, but they ran when they saw him. Proctor's about my age, I doubt he would have made much of a difference."

She had found her pincette. After she had adjusted the lamp to have the best possible view on the wound, she drew a deep breath. "This will sting a bit," she said. "Bite down and don't move!" As focused on her task as possible she started to remove the small particles from his skin. He clenched his fists, but didn't flinch once while she picked the pieces one by one from his temple. She noticed with relief that her hand was and didn't shake as she had feared it would. Once a nurse, always a nurse, she thought with a hint of satisfaction.

When she was done, she disinfected the wound, which gave her time to study his features. She did her best to concentrate, but she hadn't been this close to him in months and seeing his well-shaped face covered with his blood made her painfully aware of her suppressed feelings for him. Would she ever get past their broken engagement and her unfulfilled dreams?

"I think that's it," she said after she had applied a small bandage. "But you should really see a doctor. There's always the risk of infection or a concussion, especially when foreign objects are involved."

"I'm sure it will be fine." He groaned when he sat up. His face twisted with pain and he pressed his hand on his right side. He sank back against the rest and breathed heavily.

"What is it?" she asked alarmed, fearing he was about to have a heart attack.

"It's nothing," he mumbled and closed his eyes.

"That's a lie! Tell me now or God help me I'll call for an ambulance!"

He sighed and gave in. "They didn't just hit me with a bottle…. I think my ribs are contused."

Horrified she sank on her knees again and took his hand. "Did they want money?" she asked.

"In the widest sense of the word."

"Can you remove your jacket?"

"It's nothing. There's no need…" He broke off when she started unbuttoning his jacket, the vest, and his starched shirt. It took an eternity to remove the clothing, but she needed to be sure he wasn't hiding more, much worse injuries.

"Now I know why men like you need valets," she said nervously. "It's almost as bad as getting dressed as a woman."

The bruises over his upper body were fresh and would last for a while. Carefully she felt for his ribs and he hissed when she applied soft pressure onto his ribcage.

"Did you spill blood?" she asked worried. He shook his head. "Nothing's broken. I had some of my ribs broken in the South African War. I know what it feels like."

"I'll get you some ice and you should lie down."

He shook his head. "Please, don't make any more fuss. I'll go home now." He pushed himself up and groaned when he picked up his shirt.

"Nonsense! You won't leave this house without a pressure bandage. Come with me!"

He hesitated, but her firm glare convinced him to follow her. He followed her down the hallway into a small room whose walls were covered with book shelves.

"It's Matthew's law library," she explained. "I couldn't bring myself to clear it, but I use it more as storage room these days. I'm afraid it's a bit dusty, but no one's ever in here."

She pointed at a comfortable sofa in the middle of the room. "Lie down," she ordered. "I'll get the ice."

One hour later she returned with two glasses of brandy into the study. Dickie lay on the sofa and once he heard her steps he wanted to sit up, but the bandage around his upper body hampered his movements.

"Please, stay where you are," she said, as she settled down into an armchair near the sofa. "Your chauffeur is in the kitchen. I gave him some coffee, but I think he's fallen asleep again as soon as left."

"I should go anyway. I have taken up enough of your time." For the first time since he had entered her house, he seemed nervous. He avoided looking at her and when she handed him the glass, she noticed that his hands were slightly trembling.

"You've had a shock," she explained gently. "You should stay until you feel better."

"I do feel better," he said. "Your care of me is wonderful and I don't deserve it."

"Nonsense!" She looked at him and asked the question that had been bothering her since he had arrived. "Do you know the people who did this to you?"

"No."

"Did they steal anything?"

"No."

His one-syllable answers didn't do anything to lessen her worry - on the contrary. "What did they want?"

Lost in his thoughts he stared into his brandy. Then after a full minute of silence he said, "They wanted to send a message."

"What kind of message?"

He looked up and for the first time she had returned to the room, he looked into her eyes. "Nothing I want to bother you with."

"That's not very kind, considering the fact that you came to me to stitch you up. I thought we are friends."

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. "I'm glad you said that. Recently I've been wondering about what we are."

His words made her blush. She knew what he meant, because she felt the same about their relationship. Sometimes she just didn't know what they really were for each other. Since she had broken up their engagement she had kept him at arm's length, but as the months had passed by, she had found it very hard to stick to her decision. She still felt drawn to him, liked his company, and valued his opinion. And now she was worrying about him and his health.

"If there's anything I can do to help…"

"I wish there was something you could do," he said. "But it's my problem and I want you to stay out of it - because I…." He broke off, looked away, gulped down his brandy.

"Because you what?" she probed. "Please, tell me."

"Because I love you and I don't want to see you hurt."

His answer hit her like a bolt of lightning. She swallowed and didn't know what to say.

"I'll take my leave now." He rose as quickly as his condition allowed it and placed the glass on Matthew's empty desk near the window. Paralysed she watched him as he slipped into his jacket. She wanted to help him, but somehow she was paralysed by her conflicting feelings.

In a way she had been aware of his love for her. He had never made a secret of his wish to marry her despite everything that had happened in the past. She had learned to ignore the looks he used to give her, had done her best to keep the mood light and casual, but everything was different tonight. They were alone, couldn't hide in the daylight and behind pleasantries. The night exposed them.

She finally found the strength to rise. Like a sleepwalker she moved over to him.

"Dickie, I…." She fought to find the right words, but she didn't know how to phrase her feelings. She didn't want to deny her love for him, but she didn't want to raise up his hopes for a reunion either.

"It's all right, Isobel," he said. "I know you don't return my feelings - at least not anymore. There's no need for you to say anything to be nice."

She felt as if he had slapped her. Had she really convinced him that her feelings for him were a thing of the past?

"How can you say that?" she asked hoarsely.

"Isn't that the truth?"

She shook her head and touched his cheek with her hand. Tenderly she ran her thumb over his cheekbone. Visibly affected by her touch he closed his eyes and turned his head to kiss the palm of her hand. She shivered when his lips touched her skin.

"Don't…" As if he had just realized that he had given into a forbidden temptation he withdrew. "I'm not sure I can take it."

"Stay." She didn't know from where she had summoned the courage, but she went after him and kissed him gently on the lips.

"You'll be the death of me one day," he whispered once she leaned back. "Does that mean you will…."

Before he could make another proposal, she placed her index finger on his lips, which silenced him immediately.

"Not now," she returned quietly. They kissed again, deeper and longer than ever before. Suddenly she became aware of his hands on her hips and the soft pressure they applied. How would they feel on her naked skin? Would they leave marks on her? How would she feel once he entered her? Delicious, all consuming heat was rising within her core and bemused her. It had been ages since she had felt lust for a man, but him she wanted with every fibre of her being and she wanted him now.

Gently she broke away from him and took his hand. She gave him a meaningful glance, saw the surprise and the hesitation, the qualms in his eyes - and kissed him again. With every second the kiss went on, his defences went further down. Without losing another word she led him upstairs to her bedroom.

* * *

_**Juan-les-Pins** _

Violet had already finished her breakfast and was ready for the day to begin when Isobel arrived in her suite. The older woman spotted instantly that something about her friend's aura had significantly changed.

"Now you look ravishing this morning," Violet remarked pettily. She had seen this certain glow around women often enough to know what it meant. Her wardrobe, a white linen dress with a marvellous hat only added to Isobel's beauty, as Violet noticed with a small hint of envy. Love really was the best beauty treatment available. No cream could compete with the effect of a passion filled assignation.

"Well, thank you," Isobel said. "Can you spare me a cup of tea?"

"Of course. Actually, I had expected for you to come around earlier, but… I guess you needed the rest."

"I don't know what you mean," Isobel said with a smile while she took off her gloves and took the cup Violet handed her.

"So?"

"So what?"

"For heaven's sake, do I really have to worm every detail out of you?"

"That rather depends on the worm."

"Who's that mysterious woman?"

A shadow crossed Isobel's face and she put her cup down. "Her name is Natasha DeWinter. She's a rich widow who is in need of a husband - preferable one with a posh title."

"So, it is true. Dickie's facing bankryptcy."

"Actually, Larry is facing bankryptcy," Isobel clarified sourly. "He's invested in a big property project and mortgaged himself and Cavenham up to the hills to get the money he needed. It was completely reckless and he lost almost everything."

"I see... And I assume payment day has arrived. Can't Mrs Grey's family provide the money? I mean Larry's working for their bank and one day it'll be his."

Isobel shrugged. "It seems Mister Cruikshank wasn't too happy with Larry's handling of things and refuses to offer any money or advice on the matter."

Violet clicked her tongue. "And help is on the horizon in the form of Mrs DeWinter."

Her conclusion didn't fail its effect on Isobel whose face darkened by the prospect.

"Is he really desperate enough to marry that young piece?" Violet asked.

"Seems like it," Isobel said wearily.

"I'm sorry."

Isobel shrugged. "Never mind. It's my own fault, isn't it?"

Violet tilted her head. "You mean, if you had married him when you had the chance you wouldn't be in the position to watch him marrying him someone else? That's probably true."

"You really know how to cast a shadow on an already dark day," Isobel snapped.

"I'm just being honest." The Dowager rose and went into her bedroom, where she kept Igor's letter hidden in her purse. She hadn't shown it to Isobel, because she hadn't been sure what to expect when they arrived. The presence of Mrs DeWinter complicated things and made Isobel unhappy. It was hard to tell what exactly was going on between Isobel and her former fiance, but Violet started to think that she had misjudged the dynamic between them. "I think it's time you read it."

Curious Isobel turned the envelope in her hand. "What is it?"

"A letter."

"I can see that."

"Well, read it. It's from a friend who wants to help."

Isobel eyed the envelope with suspicion, but did as told when Violet repeated her request and encouraged her to open it.

"I think you'll find the contents quite interesting."

Violet could tell by the look on Isobel's face that she wasn't convinced, but she unfolded the pages anyway and started to read.

* * *

Igor Kuragin had a plan. It contained a lot of snares and strings, but the first part of his scheme was already working out perfectly. After all the years of misfortune, the loss of his status, his home, and his family, he had finally found a way to get back at least a part of his former life and enough money to spend his remaining years in peace and a considerable comfort. If he was lucky, he would also win back the woman he loved, but he didn't dare to hope for that - not just yet.

He was sitting in the lobby of the hotel and watched the people passing by. He had positioned himself opposite to the lift so that he could see Violet, when she came out. He longed to see her again and since the news about her arrival had reached him, he found himself on edge. His plan was in motion and there was no turning back now.

A hotel had always held a big fascination for him. Strangers lived together under the same roof for a couple of days or weeks. They got acquainted, laughed, ate, danced together and once their time was over, their ways parted again. No strings attached. Most of these people met by coincidence, some because of fate.

These days the hotel was occupied by a group of characters whose lodging was not a matter of fate or coincidence. All of them played a part in a carefully orchestrated symphony that would hopefully fade in a happy ending for those who deserved it.

He had never understood himself as a brilliant schemer, but now that he saw things falling into place he started to like the idea of it.

Violet and her friend Mrs Crawley had arrived the day before. Lord Merton had already taken the bait and showed interest in Natasha DeWinter, while his son seemed to have become a lost soul after the damage he had caused for his family. His wife, a heartless piece of work, was determined to do what was necessary to make sure no one would take her place - especially not a woman like Mrs DeWinter who was only five years her senior, but so much more vibrant and beautiful. It was a battle Kuragin looked forward to.

Very soon another guest would arrive and the man would be the lynchpin. Stewart Rackett, a rich American tycoon who unlawfully owned something Kuragin had thought was lost for all eternity. He was also someone who came to Europe to collect old dues. The man's bitterness could be the key to his doom, if Kuragin played his hand well.

The doors of the lift opened. A smile crossed Kuragin's face when he recognized Violet and Isobel among the guests who crossed the lobby. He knew Violet had spotted him instantly, but she gracefully ignored him and passed him without acknowledging his presence. Mrs Crawley had also registered his presence, but she gave him a smile and visibly wondered why Violet refused to greet him. He chuckled. Some things never changed.

**********tbc**********


	3. The Lead off

 

Isobel and Violet spent the afternoon on the hotel terrace under a big sunblind. Violet found it was the perfect spot to watch other people passing by while one could escape the heat of the glorious French sun. Isobel on the other hand wasn't so sure she enjoyed the view the place offered. Some time ago Larry and Amelia had walked by and once Dickie's son had spotted Isobel he had lost control over his sharp features. His expression was one of a man who had just seen a ghost.

Isobel knew he hated her with passion, though she didn't really know why. Since the feeling was mutual she had given up on exploring it, but when he recognized her and Violet, it almost looked as he was about to panic. For a second he had locked eyes with Isobel, before he had quickly looked away and pretended not to notice her. Amelia, stone faced and aloof as always, hadn't paid her one single look, but Isobel was sure she was just as aware of her presence as her husband.

Before Dickie had left her room shortly after dawn he had told her about the rocky start of Amelia and Larry's marriage. His new daughter-in-law wasn't too happy with the prospect of losing Cavenham, before she really had the opportunity to get her hands on the estate. Isobel found it highly ironic that someone as greedy and calculated as Amelia was about to lose her well-planned future as a rich lady just after she had sealed the deal and got married to a nasty chap like Larry. Isobel knew love could have many facettes and forms, but she wondered if Larry and Amelia really loved one another or if their union was simply one of convenience.

She had been among the Crawleys for long enough to know stories about unhappy marriages, contracted for money, prestige, power or to save an estate. These bonds were made over drinks and cigars in the dining room and lived in hell. Intellectually she understood the motive to marry someone for the greater good of the family and the estate, but now that the man she loved faced such an ordeal, she saw it less objective.

She remembered Dickie's desperation when he told her about his fear of being the one to lose it all. Titles, money, estates…. Her life as a Doctor's wife hadn't always been easy, but she never had to worry about losing Reginald over money or prestige.

"Ah, there she is!" Violet gave Isobel's lower arm a light pinch and Isobel spilled a bit of her tea over her shoes.

"What are you talking about?" she snapped.

"Mrs DeWinter and her admirer seem to be headed this way," Violet informed her eagerly. "Perhaps he wants to introduce the two of you."

"Don't be ridiculous!" The idea was insane, but she couldn't put it past Dickie to think it was a good idea for them to meet. He was this naive.

Isobel eyed Dickie and his young companion closely as they strolled down the terrace. Just as Isobel Mrs DeWinter wore a white dress with a magnificent hat. In the broad daylight Isobel noticed that Mrs DeWinter wore her dark hair formed to an elegant knot in her neck. Unlike many other young women she hadn't cut her hair short. Dickie liked long hair and didn't like Mary's daring haircut as he had told Isobel once in private. It was just another asset that added to her favour, as if her wealth wasn't enough already. Even in the harsh and unforgiving French heat the younger woman looked vibrant and beautiful. She doubted anyone would consider marrying a beauty like her a sacrifice. Last night Dickie had told her how much he loved her, but seeing them together awoke her doubts anew. She was too old and too poor to compete with Mrs DeWinter. She had nothing to offer to Dickie. She couldn't safe his estate and she couldn't give him more children…

Just like Larry, Dickie locked eyes with Isobel when he and Mrs DeWinter passed their table, but he didn't stop to greet them. Isobel was relieved to have more time to prepare herself for a meeting. For the time being she was spared the embarrassment to be introduced.

"Pity," Violet remarked dryly.

"What do you mean?" Isobel asked.

"Wouldn't you have loved to meet her?"

"No."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer," Violet reminded her. "If you wish to put up a fight for him, you'll have to sharpen your claws better sooner than later."

Isobel ignored Violet's advice and asked, "When will you talk to Prince Kuragin?"

"When the time has come," Violet answered. "And before you ask, I'll be the judge of time."

* * *

Dickie and Natasha DeWinter slowly strolled along the terrace where the view across the shore and the sea was breathtaking, but Dickie found himself unable to enjoy the beauty of the ivory blue sea. His mind was occupied with Isobel. She was everywhere he went and everywhere he looked he saw her beautiful face. It had been ages since a woman held this kind of power over him. How much easier his life would be, if the woman who was walking next to him awoke the same kind of love in him as Isobel had when she had first entered his life.

Natasha DeWinter was everything a man could want. She was young, enchanting, and vibrant. She reminded him of Mary, though she was less opaque, but just as straight forward and intelligent.

Amelia couldn't stand the sight of her and Larry avoided talking to her whenever it was possible. Natasha seemed to enjoy the uneasiness she created among them; it amused her and Dickie had to admit that it made him smile as well. Amelia and Larry certainly it had coming.

"A penny for your thoughts," Natasha said.

"They are not worth that much," he admitted with a wry smile.

"I doubt you mean that."

"I'm quite sure though." He was still trying to figure out her accent. She had a rather deep, almost smokey voice and it was undeniable that she spent some time in Paris, but there was a strange sound coming from the depths of her throat when she spoke. It was a trace of soft harshness in her pronunciation that left him wondering, if she, as her first name suggested, had a Russian heritage.

"So, who is this woman?" she asked. "And don't say you don't know whom I am talking about. You've been looking at her for a bit too long to deny knowing her."

"You are very observant."

"It's female gift."

He smiled. "I'm sure it is. Men are more unaware of these things. Her name is Mrs Crawley." He didn't wish to add anything more, but he had the feeling he wouldn't get away with his sparse explanation.

"So, since she doesn't seem to be a relative or a simple acquaintance, she must be someone… special to you."

"We were engaged until last Christmas."

His honesty didn't seem to impress or surprise her. "You left her?" she asked more fascinated by the idea than truly curious. As always when he thought about the breakup he felt pain, anger, and frustration upon his helplessness when she had told him she would always think of him 'with great affection'. It was a wound that never closed, but widened when he thought about the two nights they had spent together recently.

He didn't understand her actions or her motivation. It bewildered him that she made love to him, but refused to become his wife and be his lover instead. He was old fashioned enough to believe that two people who were in love with each other should get married and spent their lives together.

"No, she left me."

"The way you say it, suggests it's complicated."

He chuckled bitterly, "That's an understatement."

"I'm reading this book," she said after a few moments of silence. "The title is 'Harriet and the Piper'. Do you know it?"

"I'm afraid not," he said. He had no idea why she was changing the subject to literature, but he was grateful for it. With books he felt more comfortable than with heartache.

"Perhaps you should. I would like to hear your opinion about the main character. I'm not sure whether she is a ruined woman, a gold-digger or someone entirely else."

"Maybe she's everything you think she is," he suggested.

Natasha chuckled, "Spoken like a true romantic. Are you a romantic, Lord Merton?"

"My late wife used to call me a romantic, but I doubt she meant it as a compliment."

"Well, perhaps your wife was a fool."

"I've called her many things, but never that," he admitted.

"So, what was your wife? A ruined woman? A gold-digger?"

Dickie contemplated the question and answered, "A mixture of both and a lot more."

"And what is she? Your Mrs Crawley?"

He didn't have to think about the answer. "She's… someone entirely else," he said. "How about some tea?"

* * *

After a very silent and uncomfortable dinner Dickie, Larry, and Amelia went into the bar where the band had already started playing and the guests enjoyed themselves over champagne, cigarettes, and fancy cocktails. With relief Dickie noticed that Isobel and Violet were not there yet, which gave him time to brace himself for the evening.

When he had spotted them at their table in the dining room the night before he thought he was dreaming. Isobel had worn the same dress as three years ago at Rose's ball when he had asked her to dance the very first time. Seeing her again wearing the same dress in this very unenglish scenery had felt like a deja vu placed in a strange dream. How was he supposed to do what he had to do when Isobel was staying under the same roof? How should he refuse the temptation of visiting her room night after night? She had made it very clear that she would welcome him, without a doubt to convince him to give up his pursuit of Natasha - and he wasn't sure Isobel wouldn't succeed.

"Father, we have to talk." Larry murmured the words into his ear. Then he nodded to Amelia and excused them both. "We'll have a cigar on the terrace, Darling."

"Of course, you will." Amelia gave her husband a cold look, but didn't object. "I'll get myself a drink," she said and rose to go to the bar.

Outside Larry pulled Dickie to the balustrade and said fervidly, "Listen, this has been going on long enough. It's time you went home. I can take care of everything myself."

"And how will you do that? Did you find the money you lost in the streets?" Dickie asked.

"No, but the man who's behind the real estate deal will arrive here tomorrow. I'm sure I can work out a deal with him!"

"You had your chance and you missed it," Dickie reminded him. "There's nothing you have to offer to this man- unless…" he looked into the bar and watched Amelia talking to a stranger at the bar. "Your wife convinces her father to give you the money."

"She hasn't," Larry admitted. "But there's no need for you to marry Mrs DeWinter or anyone else."

"I think I can decide for myself what to do and where to go."

"Father, it is really not necessary. It's unpleasant and the presence of Mrs Crawley is not helpful…"

Furious that Larry dared to say Isobel's name, Dickie shut his son off, "Enough. You've proven that you're not up to the task of taking care of the estate - yet. You can do whatever you want with it when I'm dead, but I doubt your wife will thank you for it when you lose it all even before I meet my maker!"

"I… we won't lose it." Larry clenched his jaws, but Dickie could read it in his son's eyes that he had hit a nerve. Larry's ego was always easily bruised, but this went deeper than superficial shame. He registered with satisfaction that Larry seemed hurt by his brutal honesty.

"This discussion is over and you leave Mrs Crawley alone. Understood?" He didn't wait for his son to answer and turned away. Natasha DeWinter, dressed in a dream of silk in black and emerald green was coming straight towards him. He wasn't sure whether he was actually happy to see her. He felt like some pathetic skirt chaser when he thought about the reason he got acquainted to her in the first place.

"Lord Merton," she greeted him with a smile. She completely ignored Larry who stood behind his father and didn't seem to know what to do or say. Larry had never been shy - the only girl who could make him shut his mouth had been Sybil Crawley, God rest her soul, but every time he saw Natasha he looked like a fish out of water.

"I've been looking for you. I am in need of a dancing partner."

"Well, here I am at your service." Dickie offered her his arm and she took it.

"Your son looked pretty crestfallen for someone who just enjoyed a good dinner," Natasha remarked dryly after they had turned their backs on Larry.

"Larry is not someone who enjoys food," Dickie said as he led Natasha inside the bar. "He never has. He's got it from his mother."

"How sad. I always pity people who can't enjoy the good things in life. Food, love, wine. What would we be without it?"

"How true! Speaking about the good things in life? How about some champagne?" he asked.

"What a lovely idea."

He offered her a seat at one of the free tables near the window front. The spot offered the perfect view at the door. The room filled steadily with new guests, Isobel and Violet being among them. This time he managed to avoid Isobel's eyes, which he considered a small victory. The biggest challenge of the day lay ahead of him though: he had to walk past Isobel's room tonight without knocking.

* * *

"I think I'm going upstairs," Isobel said only five minutes after she and Violet had taken their seats in the other corner of the room.

"But why?" Violet asked flabbergasted. "You haven't even finished your drink… whatever it is." She eyed the glass with the almost clear liquid and a leaf of mint that was pierced on the small stick with a mix of fascination and disgust.

"It's called Gin Rickey," Isobel said. "And it's not my cup of tea."

"Perhaps it's the view that's to blame rather than the drink," Violet suggested. "Lord Merton and his young company seem to enjoy themselves while Mrs Grey looks like someone who's ready to kill with her bare hands."

Isobel had already noticed that Amelia eyed her father in law and Mrs DeWinter with cruel disdain while Larry seemed particularly uneasy with the situation. Isobel liked to think that Larry had finally learned something from his mistakes, but knowing him that was almost unbelievable, if not downright impossible.

"It doesn't make any sense, though, does it?" Isobel asked after she had gulped down half of her drink. "If Amelia wants to own Cavenham one day, she should be glad if Dickie can rustle up the needed amount of money to keep it."

Violet shrugged. "I think she's greedy enough to think her husband will get the money from somewhere else, so she can play the lady of the manor even before Dickie's dead. I doubt another Lady Merton, especially a young one who isn't intimidated by her, is part of her well-wrought plans."

Isobel had to admit that it was the only explanation that made sense. Again she felt sorry for Dickie who had to endure them day and after day and felt responsible for saving their inheritance.

"I think I'll call it a night anyway," she said and rose. She was sick of watching him drinking champagne with Mrs DeWinter. She also had the vain hope, if he saw her leaving he would make up his mind and follow her soon after.

Violet sighed exasperated. "I'll go up too then," she decided and grabbed for her cane. Someone approached them, casting a shadow across the table. Irritated Violet looked up and gasped when it was Igor Kuragin. Isobel was stunned and sank back into her seat. Apparently the former prince hadn't lost his ability to show up when was least expecting him. He smiled at them and made a gallant bow.

"What on earth…." Violet snapped, but Kuragin established eye contact with Isobel and said, "May I have this dance?"

Unsure how to react Isobel looked from Violet to Kuragin and back. "I promise your toes will be safe with me," he added. "You can ask Lady Grantham, if you wish for a reference."

The remark earned him an ugly glare from Violet, while it asmused Isobel. Violet wasn't used to be challenged like this and Isobel knew she wouldn't stomach it well.

"The question is, if your toes are safe with me. I'm not much of a dancer."

"Let's take our chance then." He offered her his hand and after another quick look at Violet who just shrugged her shoulders Isobel took it.

"You know you will regret this, do you?" Isobel asked when they started to move across the filled dance floor.

"You mean Lady Grantham will make me regret this?" he asked amused. "I'm sure she will and I'm prepared to deal with her merciless scorn."

"How have you been?" she asked. She had noticed how impeccably dressed he was compared to the last time she saw him. His white tie attire wasn't borrowed this time. It had been tailored for him, that much she could see. "It's a long way from St. Petersburgh to York, Paris and now the French Riviera."

"I've fallen on my feet," he answered vaguely. "I was lucky."

"And how is the Princess?"

"Irina has died last year. She had lost the wish to live a long time ago and one night she went to bed and didn't wake up again. It was a merciful death."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"I doubt she would feel touched the sentiment." Kuragin gave her a wry smile and Isobel agreed.

"So, why are you asking me to dance and not Lady Grantham?"

"Oh, I have my reasons, Mrs Crawley. One is watching us from the table near the windows."

"I can't follow you…"

"Mrs DeWinter," he said as if the name would explain everything. "Do not overvalue her presence in Lord Merton's life."

Isobel wasn't willing to make any comment on Mrs DeWinter or Dickie. She was too confused by what Kuragin could know about them to say anything. He didn't seem to expect an answer, because he added. "And then I want you to give a message to Lady Grantham from me. I could write to her, of course, but some things are better delivered by someone one can trust."

"What message?"

"Tell her I want to see her for luncheon tomorrow. It's important she attends."

"I doubt she will be pleased to be summoned like this."

"If anyone can convince her to join me, it is you."

Isobel chuckled. "You flatter me. Cousin Violet has never done anything just because I asked her to."

"You are underestimating your skill set," he said. "She values your opinion more than she values anyone else's."

Isobel was astonished about his statement. "How do you know that?"

"She told me so."

Isobel looked over her shoulder to see if Violet was still at the table, but her chair was empty.

"She left," Kuragin said. "Does she really need that cane or does she only use it to keep away people she doesn't like?"

Isobel laughed. "There are times when I ask myself the same questions. I think I should follow her, before her maid pays the price for our little indiscretion." The music faded away and Kuragin led Isobel back to her table.

"That's what I mean," Kuragin said. "You know how to deal with her. That's the reason I asked her to bring you along."

"Maybe, but I still don't understand any of it."

"You will, my dear Mrs Crawley, and very soon you will know what this is all about. And now I have to leave. I'm expected by a friend in half an hour. Good night, Mrs Crawley."

"Good night."

Again he made a small bow before he left. Isobel saw that her drink was still on the table. She finished it and against her initial dislike of the gin in it, she started to like the taste of it.

* * *

Isobel showed up in Violet's suite just as Denker was about to leave. The maid's lips were thinner than Isobel had never ever them, which was never a good sign. Denker was always full of mischief and Isobel hoped she wouldn't hand in her notice in this trip. The last thing she wanted to face on this trip was having to endure Violet without a ladies maid around.

"Is Lady Grantham still up?" Isobel asked.

"She is, Ma'am. I think she's waiting for you."

According to Denker's sour mine, Isobel suspected that Violet hadn't indeed been the easiest to deal with this evening.

"I'll go in then. Good night, Denker."

"Good night, Mrs Crawley."

The door fell boisterously shut behind Denker. Isobel rolled her eyes and went to the open bedroom door. Violet was sitting behind her dressing table. Her hair was down and she wore her dressing down. Isobel knocked at the door frame and waited, but Violet didn't ask her in and so she simply went inside. Isobel noticed the nail file near the brush and asked, "Are you sharpening your claws?"

"I didn't expect you to show up before the witching hour."

"I'm afraid the prince had another appointment to keep," Isobel said. "But he sends his… best wishes."

"How kind of him. Did you enjoy your dance?"

Isobel ignored her question."He's asked me to deliver a message from him."

For the first time Violet looked up. Reluctant curiosity was written all over her face.

"What did he say?" she asked, holding her breath.

"He wants to invite you for luncheon tomorrow. He says it's vital you attend."

"How peculiar." Violet shook her head.

"I think you should go."

"Do you?"

"Yes, because I will have other plans. The concierge gave me this when I asked downstairs if there were any messages for me."

She gave Violet a letter who hesitated to take it. "All right, I'll read it for you. It's from Mrs DeWinter."

" _Dear Mrs Crawley, I hope you will do me the compliment of having lunch with me tomorrow at the Hotel Provencial at one o'clock."_

_Yours Natasha DeWinter"_

"And that's even more peculiar," Violet said. All of the sudden she had given up her sulky act. She found her reading glasses in the drawer and took the letter to read it for herself. "So, Dickie must have told her about you."

"Seems like it," Isobel shrugged.

"And you want to go?"

"Of course! Remember? You were the one who told me to sharpen my claws. And will you go to see the Prince?"

Violet looked at her reflection in the mirror. "I guess I have to. God knows what ideas he comes up with next, if I refuse his invitation."

Satisfied with her accomplishment, Isobel exhaled deeply. "Fine then. I'll go to bed then. Good night."

"Good night."

Isobel stopped in the door frame, turned around and said, "By the way. When it comes to dancing I prefer Dickie over the Prince. I think I've always preferred them… taller."

******tbc******

 


	4. The Merry Widow

 

Violet appeared in the hotel restaurant for lunch as requested. She took the liberty of showing up fifteen minutes late though. Kuragin, displaying his usual stoic nature had chosen a table near the windows that offered a breathtaking view over the mediterrainien sea. Just as the night before Violet wondered how and why he found the way from Paris to the French Riviera. Isobel had told her over breakfast that the Princess was dead. The news didn't come as a surprise, but was still a blow. She had gone through many lengths to recover Irina to reconcile her with her estranged husband. The only comfort was that Irina didn't have to die in the last corner of Asia, far away from her home and her family, but deep down Violet sensed her rescue hadn't meant much to Irina. She had been too broken and bruised to feel happy about her return to a world that was at least similar to her old one.

"There you are." Kuragin rose when Violet reached the table.

"As if I stood a chance," she replied, after the maitre had left to get the menus.

"I was told France is a free country. You could have stayed away."

"Freedom is a misleading concept, if you ask me."

"Touché."

The maitre returned with the menu and Kuragin ordered the wine. Violet used the opportunity to take a closer look at his appearance. He looked well, much better than the last time they had met in England. His clothes were expensive, well tailored, and modern. He looked healthy and relaxed. If only she felt as agile as he looked!

"You seem to have found a way to make yourself a living," she said.

"I did. Paris was not a…. How do you say? A dead end. It was a new beginning. Thanks to you!"

"I'm glad to hear it. Do you live here now?" she asked and decided not to ask about Irina. She hated dwelling on the past and so did he - obviously. A merry widower indeed.

"I do. There's a villa up the hills. It's called 'La maison blanche' which is rather amusing. Everything around here seems to be white - the sea aside."

Violet chuckled. "You mean the sea and the genuine darkness of the soul."

The waiter arrived with the wine and served it. Kuragin, still amused about her phrase, made a toast. "To the darkness of the soul."

"Why did I have to come?" Violet asked.

"Today? Because I wanted to have lunch with you."

"No, I mean to France. The last time we met I told you…"

He interrupted her, "The question is, why did you come when the last time we talked you told me it was over?"

Violet hoped she didn't blush and just gave him a questioning stare.

"Well, I wrote in my letter that I needed your help. I was serious about it."

"You look quite well for someone who needs help."

He grinned amused. "I take that as a compliment."

Violet thought he must have found himself a very well meaning sponsor, but she decided not to think about it right now. She would find the answer sooner or later anyway.

"What's all this to do with Lord Merton? Does he even know you are here?"

Kuragin nodded. "Oh yes, he knows. I dined with him the week before your arrival. I was the one who told him about Madame DeWinter and her wish to remarry into the British noblesse."

Violet crooked her eyebrow. "I bet that's something you didn't tell Mrs Crawley when you asked her to dance with you."

Her little quip made him laugh. "I told her not to overvalue Madame DeWinter's presence in Lord Merton's life."

"How cryptic."

"I think she understood the message. She's more subtle than you give her credit for."

"She may be, but I still would like to know what kind of tangled web you're weaving."

Kuragin closed his menu. "Tonight I'll introduce you to Lady Walsh. She owns the 'maison blanche'. She will invite you and Mrs Crawley for a house party over the weekend."

"And we are supposed to go?" Violet asked irritated. "Who is Lady Walsh? I've never heard the name."

"Priscilla Walsh has been living here for the last two decades. She's a widow and she loves to give lavish parties where you can meet the most interesting people. She's also a passionate collector of jewellery and diamonds. That is all you need to know. At least for the time being," he added when he saw her stony face. She didn't like his description of the woman for one bit. She had the strange feeling she would be trapped in a house near the hills with people like Martha Levinson and God forbid, these new people from the artistic milieu that Edith had told her about. These bright young people hung around in bourgeoise art cafés, night clubs, and restaurants. They smoked cigarettes, drank fancy cocktails, and thought they could change the world with the writing of novels. How naive.

"Why do I keep thinking I will live to regret this?"

"You won't. I promise it. And now pick your food. I've heard the black sole is superb."

Violet sniffed at the idea. "I hate fish. I thought you knew that."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm almost eighty years old. I can't remember everything and come to think of it, I don't think I want to."

That was a statement she would never argue with.

* * *

Isobel was not someone who got easily nervous, but now that she was facing luncheon with Natasha DeWinter she felt jittery like a teenage girl before her debutante's ball.

Natasha had chosen a table that stood in a corner and was secluded enough not to be overheard by other guests. Isobel had heard many stories about the famous Hotel 'Le Provencial' and she found the house as breathtaking as she had expected it.

Mrs DeWinter was already waiting for Isobel when she arrived and greeted her with a wide smile. As always Natasha was impeccable dressed in a dream of green chiffon that matched the colour of her eyes.

"Mrs Crawley, how good of you to come!"

"Actually, I'm not sure I know why I'm here," Isobel answered truthfully. "We haven't even been introduced."

"But we know of each other, which should make any formal introduction unnecessary," Natasha said friendly after they had taken their seats. "I hope you don't mind that I didn't ask Lord Merton for luncheon as well."

"I'm not," Isobel answered. "On the contrary."

"He told me a lot about you, you know," Natasha continued as if she hadn't heard Isobel's remark.

"Golly, I wonder what he told you."

"I told me you broke off your engagement, which I found quite astonishing. Why would any woman in her right mind leave a man like him?"

Isobel froze. Against her hope, the young woman didn't waste any minute with small talk about the weather. She usually liked straight forward people, but this was moving way too fast for her. Natasha DeWinter was the exact opposite of Amelia who liked to sneak around the bushes before she approached a subject. With Natasha there was no testing of waters or tiptoeing around an issue. Violet would like her.

A waiter arrived to serve water and wine. He handed out the menus and vanished quickly when Natasha waved him away. Isobel noticed the heavy emerald bracelet around her right wrist and compared it to her humble selection of jewellery.

"Did you meet his family?" Isobel returned the question.

Natasha smiled wryly. "I did. They are… less kind than he is."

"That's one way to describe them."

"My grandfather used to tell me that a good person is always worth the fight," Natasha said. "But then he is a romantic."

Again Isobel wondered about the background of the younger woman and her age. Now that she sat opposite Natasha, Isobel could tell, she was not as young as she had thought, but the soft wrinkles around her eyes didn't diminish the woman's beauty. Not the contrary, the way life had marked her face made it all the more interesting. Her accent sounded like a mixture of Parisian French and something eastern European though she didn't want to put her finger on it.

"Your grandfather was right, but it's not always easy to put up a fight, especially when you have reached an age where you wish for nothing but for peace," Isobel answered pensively.

"The question is, if you are willing to let him go in peace once he thinks he's ready to do so?"

"What tells you he isn't ready?" Isobel asked after she had digested the question.

"As you must know, he's quite easy to read," Natasha answered. "I'm not asking for a man whose over the hills in love with me, but I want one who's not thinking about someone else the whole time. I deserve more and…" she broke off, sipped from her wine and added, "I have a daughter who deserves more."

Isobel swallowed. This new piece of information was nothing she had ever thought about. "I had no idea you had a child." In front of her inner eye she pictures a dark-haired girl with curly hair who was an image of her mother. A girl Dickie would probably love to pieces, because she was the girl he never had. The idea gave her heart a wince of pain.

"Oh, I do. Her name is Janou and she's three years old. She's never known her father, because she was too small when he died."

"I see… well, to come back to your initial question, I'm not ready to let him go in peace. Not, if he doesn't want to."

Natasha chuckled, "I understand. I appreciate your honesty, but never underestimate the power of a wronged, male ego."

"I don't," Isobel said. She thought about the night she had broken up with Dickie. The look on his face had spoken volumes about his pain and the humiliation he had suffered. Had he really forgiven her for her cowardice?

"So, let battle commence," Natasha said and picked up her menu. "But before we do so, let's enjoy the delights of the chef. I was told he's the best between here and Hong Kong."

Isobel wasn't hungry and she wasn't interested in food, but she also opened her menu. It gave her time to think about a strategy.

"Money isn't everything, you know," Isobel said after a minute of silence between them.

"I'm aware of that, but it is incredibly comforting," Natasha said meaningfully. "I'm talking out of experience. What about the black sole? It looks delicious!"

* * *

After luncheon Dickie finally escaped Amelia and Larry. They had wanted to take him on a tour around the small town, but he claimed the weather was too hot for him and so he got away. He usually dreaded being alone, but since he spent more and more time with Amelia and Larry, he regarded some free time as a gift.

He hadn't seen or heard from Isobel since the last evening when she had been dancing with Igor Kuragin. He wasn't a jealous man by nature and he knew Kuragin wasn't her type, but he hadn't liked seeing her dancing with someone else. If it was her plan to make him jealous he didn't want to give her the satisfaction of running after her like some school boy. He felt too old to play these kind of games.

Armed with a newspaper and a book he crossed the lobby. Just when the receptionist gave him his key, Isobel stepped next to him.

"The key for room 213, please."

Her perfume reached his nose and he couldn't help but to steal a glance from her. She wore a soft blue dress with a fitting hat and looked magnificently fresh and composed for a hot summer day. He caught himself remembering how it felt to remove the straps of her chemise down her shoulder before he kissed her milky skin. He groaned inwardly when he realized that every good intention from last night was gone with the summer wind just because she was standing next to him.

"Hello," she greeted him with a daring smile.

"Hello." He blushed, swallowed, and didn't know what else to say. He felt like a perfect fool and wished he could vanish from the face of the earth.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Yes, yes," he answered quickly and cleared his throat. The man behind the reception gave Isobel her key. After he had withdrawn from the counter, she made a step towards Dickie.

"Are you sure?" she asked softly. "You look a little flushed."

"Of course. It's just hot in here, don't you agree?" His collar felt frightfully narrow all of the sudden. "You look wonderful," he finally managed to whisper.

"Well, thank you." Now she was the one who blushed. Isobel looked down to the key that rested in her hand. He wished he could read her thoughts since he didn't dare to ask, if she had missed him the night before just like he had missed her. She licked her lower lip, looked up again, and locked eyes with him. Then she tapped the book that was tucked underneath his armpit and said, "What a daring choice."

"Uh?"

"The Age of Innocence," she explained friendly.

He shrugged. Her sudden appearance had thrown him for a loop. "Well…. A friend thought I should read it."

"Mrs DeWinter really fills your head with new ideas, doesn't she?" she asked.

"It wasn't Mrs DeWinter," he lied quickly and cleared his throat again. The conversation had quickly become embarrassing and he didn't know what to think. Did she want to seduce him?

His question was answered when she leaned forward and whispered, "Room 213. In case you lose your way again."

* * *

Natasha DeWinter entered the hotel lobby and closed her fan. The muggy heat outside was exhausting. She longed for a glass of cold water or even better a bathtub filled with cold water, but she would have to postpone that idea until her meeting with Igor Kuragin was over. She spotted him in the corner of the lobby where he was reading a newspaper. She approached him with quick steps and sat down next to him. When he noticed her arrival he smiled and folded his paper to give her his full attention.

"How was your day?" he asked.

"Very successful," she answered vaguely. "And yours?"

"I can't complain either."

"How is Lady Grantham?"

"Crusty like a langouste," he chuckled.

"Isn't that the way you like them? Crusty and hard to get?"

He gave her a disapproving glare. "Don't be so catty. Without Lady Grantham we wouldn't be here. We owe her."

She rolled her eyes. "I know, I know. So, has our guest of honour arrived?"

"He's arriving right now. His limousine just stopped in front of the hotel." He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. "He's right on time."

"Has Lady Walsh been instructed about her next move?" Natasha asked.

"She knows exactly what to do." Kuragin gave her a side glance. "As long as you don't forget what your mission is, everything will work according to plan. Concentrate on your little act for tomorrow morning. It's vital everyone believes your story."

"I'm well aware of my mission," she snapped.

"Good. Focus on that and forget about Lord Merton's son."

"Easier said than done. Larry Grey watches his father like a hawk - not to mention his wife. I swear the cold witch has her own agenda. We have to be careful she won't spoil our plans."

Kuragin didn't seem surprised or worried."I'm sure she has her own agenda just like everyone else has their own agenda. We must focus on ours though. That's why we are here."

Natasha didn't reply. She was watching the busy entourage that followed the latest hotel guest with disgusting seeming submission. She had seen enough photos of Steward Rackett to know what he looked like, but she had to admit his appearance was indeed making an impression on her. He was tall, dashing, and very attractive for a man of his age. His features were straightlined and the scar along his cheek was more daring than forbidding.

"I'll go upstairs now," she said. "Will you take Lady Walsh for dinner tonight?"

"Of course, I will," Kuragin answered unmoved.

"Her treat or yours?" she asked mockingly.

"It's always her treat," Kuragin answered. "What can I do? She insists on paying!"

* * *

The soft breeze that came from the sea moved the curtains. The door to the balcony was open and let in the fading light of the day. It was almost time for dinner. But neither Isobel nor Dickie had the wish to leave the room ever again, sure that the world outside would disturb their peaceful existence. They lay in bed, face to face, dwelling on their respective thoughts.

"Do you remember the first time I invited you to the opera?" he asked. "It was after Rose's ball on your last evening in London. I desperately wanted to spend time with you without anyone else being around."

"The Merry Widow," she chuckled. "Quite ironic, isn't it?"

"From today's point of view, yes."

" _Love unspoken, faith unbroken, all life through…,"_ she hummed softly. "I can't get it out of my head since your merry widow invited me to luncheon today. The meeting was quite… extraordinary."

He seemed unmoved by her statement and kept playing with a loose strand of her hair.

"What did you talk about?" he asked.

"You… most of the time. Did you know she has a daughter?"

"She told me, but I haven't met her yet."

"You should… or don't you like children?"

"I do like them… I'm just not every good with them. Look how mine turned out."

She couldn't argue with that, but she still believed that from everything she heard about his late wife was enough to understand how things had gone wrong with Dickie and his sons.

She reached out to touch his chin with her thumb. Lost in her thoughts she caressed his face, wondering why she had turned him down. She must have been mad.

"I don't understand you." He took her hand in his and kissed it. "Why am I here?"

"You know very well why."

"No, I don't," he shook his head. "You refused me, yet you let me share your bed." She turned her face into her pillow. He didn't have to remind her about the senselessness of their situation. She was contradicting herself every time she opened the door for him, but she couldn't help it.

At least he had the means to save Cavenham, something that wouldn't be possible if he were married to her. If she was brutally honest the broken engagement was a blessing in disguise. He had made it clear that he wanted to save his estate and she couldn't blame him. Why should he give it all up for her after she had left him?

"Isn't it better this way?" she asked in a quiet voice when she looked at him again. "If you want to you can marry someone else. Someone with money… someone who can offer you a second family. I know Natasha likes you."

"I like her, too, but I also like Lady Grantham and Irish whiskey. Not necessarily in that order though."

"I'm serious," she said and moved closer against him. His hand came to rest on her hip and squeezed it, which caused her to shiver.

"That's what scares me."

She leaned in to kiss him. "You came here to look for someone who can help you. Perhaps she's the one who can."

"I came here to deal with the man who tricked Larry," Dickie corrected her. "It wasn't my intention to become a skirt chaser."

Isobel smiled about his phrasing. She gently touched the small scar on his temple with her fingertip. It scared her to think about the man who had no scruples to attack other people over money.

"Whoever he is, I don't trust him," she said. "Do you know him?"

"No yet. Larry said he arrives tonight. Perhaps he already has."

"Don't you want to be part of his welcome committee?" she asked.

Again he denied her question. He rolled her over on her back. "I don't want to appear more desperate than I already am."

She didn't know what to do to comfort him and so she kissed him and entangled her legs with his. She knew it would be unkind towards Violet to skip dinner entirely, but she was sure her cousin would forgive her, if she arrived a little late.

******tbc******


	5. Guess who's coming for Dinner

 

Natasha was dying. Every time she looked at her own reflection in the mirror she saw the undeniable signs of her upcoming demise staring back at her. The rest of the world, including the people closest to her, didn't know she was ill and she wanted to keep it that way. For the time being it was her problem. She saw the dark spots underneath her eyes, the paleness of her skin. The weight loss had made her weak and listless, but every morning she got out of bed and told herself to smile, to dress up, to follow her ultimate goal. She had known the ugliness of her situation for about a month now and the time she had left before the cancer would eat her up and spill her out, she had to use to make her sure her daughter had the best possible future. She owed it to Janou to give her what was rightfully hers and she thanked God for sending her Lord Merton. The man was kind and he could ensure Janou was well taken care of once she was gone.

Her plan was plain and simple, it was different from what Igor wanted, but his plans for Lord Merton didn't matter. If their scheme went according to plan, Igor would fall onto his feet. He would find a way to lure his way back into a part of society that could sustain him for the years he had left.

Natasha looked into the small bed where her daughter was sound asleep and smiled. Janou was the only one that truly needed protection. She was worth every fight and every sacrifice.

She thought of her conversation with Mrs Crawley. Natasha suspected she was the only one who could spoil her plans. Lord Merton was deeply in love with her and he was the kind of man who was upright enough to be faithful to the one woman he truly loved.

As much as she hated it, she had to make sure he would choose her over Mrs Crawley. She had to play dirtier than she wanted to. A pity, she liked the other woman. Isobel Crawley was a survivor, a woman who never gave up. It was a trait that she deeply admired. One she hoped her daughter had inherited from her.

* * *

Larry Grey was angry. With himself, his wife, the whole world actually, and Mrs Crawley in particular. Why on earth did she have to be here of all places? Thanks to her his father was unnecessarily distracted and Amelia was… even more ghastly than usual. She hated Isobel Crawley with passion ever since she had dared not to fall for her act of kindness. He had warned her, but aloof as Amelia was, she had ignored his advice and as a result she had crossed paths with the Dowager Countess of Grantham - and lost the fight. Amelia wasn't used to being challenged and didn't respond well to it.

Larry looked across the full, busy dining room where he detected Natasha DeWinter. She was having dinner with a couple he had seen around here before, but didn't know. The old fuddy duddy looked Russian and as old as Methusalah and the old woman was like a crossbreed between an over the hill prostitute and a mad Princess without a country. Probably American, he thought disgusted, and rich enough to buy the whole of France.

The mere existence of Natasha DeWinter and her obvious interest in his old man bothered Amelia. Natasha was threatening Amelia's role as the leading lady of the manor and the whole county, if she married his father. Amelia did everything in her power to keep her father in law under her control - without much success. To Larry's surprise Dickie had found a way to escape Amelia's claws, probably to spend time with Natasha - or Mrs Crawley, but Larry doubted the latter. The Dowager was the all mighty chaperon who would make sure, Mrs Crawley stuck to her role as her travelling companion. Natasha was a much more dubious though. She was smart, much more beautiful than Amelia, and she didn't care about convention. From the moment he had first laid eyes on her over five years ago, he had known that Natasha was different than any other woman in his life. She was one in a million and one he had lost forever.

Larry grinned bleakly. If Amelia knew what she was up against, she would probably commit murder. While his wife was busy meddling with his father's women, Larry had only one goal. He needed to preserve the estate. It was destined to be his. It was all he had ever wanted. His father had always been a distant figure in his life. He had much fonder memories of his mother who had simply loved him for who he was without judging him. Up until this day his father always demanded more than Larry could give. The estate was what was left for him. It was his home. It was the place where he always felt safe. Dickie Merton owed it to him. It was all his father had to give to him.

A man entered the dining room and as if his appearance demanded so, everyone was silenced and watched him.

"Is that him?" Amelia leaned over and whispered her words as if she were afraid the man in question could overhear them.

"I think it's him", Larry said just as quietly. "That's Stewart Rackett."

"The scar looks scary", Amelia admitted fascinated. "Almost brutal."

Larry looked at his father who didn't seem impressed at all. He looked like someone who he had just seen a ghost.

"Are you all right?" Larry asked. "You look as if you know him."

"I don't," Dickie answered crisply, without taking his eyes from the new guest. He studied Rackett as if he were an exotic object in a zoo.

"I'll call on him tomorrow," Larry said. "I heard he likes to gamble. I'm sure the local casino will attract his attention."

"Good idea," Amelia agreed, uncharacteristically enthusiastic.

Dickie just snorted, "Why am I not surprised?" Larry looked puzzled at his father and wondered what exactly he was missing right now.

* * *

"So this is the famous new landlord of Cavenham Park," Violet said, as she watched Rackett and another man passing by their table.

"You think so?" Isobel asked a little out of breath. She had just arrived in the dining room. After Dickie had left her room only forty five minutes ago she had to hurry to make herself presentable. She raised her head to have a closer look at the man in question.

Ignorant to who he was, she had stood next to him and his dinner companion, a young man with a moustache and tired eyes, in the lift. Rackett was without a doubt an impressive man, tall and very elegant. She had felt his eyes on her on their way downstairs, but he hadn't addressed her and so she had ignored his penetrating gaze.

She observed him while he spoke to the waiter. A scar on his right cheek gave his face a very daring expression. He was also someone who didn't seem to smile very often. Was he the man who had given the order to beat Dickie up? The thought made her frown.

"I know so," Violet said. "The Prince told me about him this afternoon. He didn't exaggerate when he described the scar on his cheek."

"What caused it?" Isobel asked curiously.

"I think the more interesting question is, who caused it. It's the oldest story in the book. One woman trapped between two men and in the end she paid the highest price of all. She died and the men blamed one another. He got away with a scar."

"Sounds tragic."

Violet shrugged. "It happened before Rackett immigrated to the New World. He was born in England… London to be more precise."

"The Prince is well informed." Isobel looked across the dining room to see if Igor Kuragin was around. She spotted him a few tables next to theirs. He was having dinner with Mrs DeWinter and another woman she hadn't seen before. She looked like a parrot in a cage filled with white doves. Her dress was red and the wrinkled silk was too tight and exposed more of her majestic curves than it covered. The feather in her shiny headpiece was broken off and was stuck in her gray curls.

"Who is his company tonight?" Isobel asked and watched Natasha DeWinter laughing about something Kuragin hd said. Their conversation at lunch was still stuck in her head and in spite of the afternoon she had spent with Dickie, she was uncertain if she really stood a chance against the spirit and the youthful determination of Natasha DeWinter.

Violet followed Isobel's glance and frowned when she finally laid her eyes on the odd figure at Kuragin's side.

"What is it?" Isobel asked when she saw how the colour of Violet's cheeks turned from red to white.

"The Prince said her name is Lady Walsh," she answered after she had calmed herself with a large sip of her wine.

"And you know her… ?" Isobel concluded.

"I think I recognize her face… But I cannot be sure, of course... it doesn't make a lot of sense."

"Sounds mysterious," Isobel said, hoping the Dowager would tell her more. Violet's reaction to the woman intrigued her and kept her mind off Dickie.

"If my memory doesn't play tricks on me, Lady Walsh was once my maid."

Isobel choked into her glass and almost spat out her water. "That's a joke, right?"

Violet sighed and rolled her eyes. "I wish it was."

A waiter appeared. He carried a bucket with a bottle of champagne and placed it on their table.

"We didn't order…," Isobel said, but the waiter handed her a card and started opening the bottle.

"It's for you, Madame. With warmest regards of Monsieur Rackett." The waiter showed her the bottle. It was the best and most expensive champagne on the menu.

"Tell him we appreciate it," Violet said before a flushed Isobel could return the bottle.

"Why exactly are  _we_ accepting the champagne?" Isobel asked annoyed.

"It would be a waste not to accept it," Violet answered with a shrug. "I'm sure Mister Rackett will have his reasons for inviting you."

"I don't even know him," Isobel argued. And what she knew wasn't to her liking. She thought of Dickie and the blood on his beloved face and decided not to like the champagne - no matter how good or expensive it was.

She looked across the room and Rackett's eyes found hers. He didn't smile and neither did she. She opened the small envelope and read the card.

"What does he write?" Violet asked.

"Nothing," Isobel answered and put the card in her handbag.

* * *

Stewart Rackett closely observed the interesting collection of characters that was spread across the dining room. He was a man who became quickly bored, but here he felt his curiosity awaken for the first time in months. His assistant had already told him Larry Grey and his family was around. Mister Grey wanted to talk about the money he had lost. What a fool! He had brought his father and his wife, probably for help and moral support. Rackett doubted Grey's wife had anything to offer. She looked plain and boring with a mean strike around her thin mouth. She must have a lot of money, otherwise Rackett didn't know why a man in his right mind would marry a shrew like her. Then there was his father. Dickie Merton was the biggest fool on earth and he would enjoy skinning him alive. He deserved to end up left with nothing but his useless son and his ugly daughter-in-law.

"It seems the lady doesn't enjoy your approach of her." Ticked off Rackett looked at his assistant. Dean Sockton was young and arrogant and he would love to wipe the smug expression off his face. He loathed him, but Stockton was efficient in everything he did.

"She will sooner or later," Rackett answered. "I just wanted to test the waters."

"I can find out who she is, if you're interested," Stockton offered.

"I can do so myself," Rackett returned.

"I admit she looks… interesting for a woman her age."

Rackett rolled his eyes. What did this guy knew about women, style, and beauty? He probably drank his red wine with ice cubes when no one else was looking.

"She reminds me of someone I once knew," Rackett explained. "That's all you need to know. Stay out of it, understood?"

Stockton nodded. "Of course, Sir."

Rackett looked again across the room where his eyes found the lady in question. Stockton was right. She didn't seem happy with his present for her. She had looked at him only once and now she ignored him completely. Perhaps he had to find another, more subtle way to catch her interest. Every inch of her was one of a true lady. She had charisma and style. She wore a wedding band, but he suspected she was widowed and served as a travel companion to the old bat next to her. Rackett smiled and cut into his entrecote. He would offer her some distraction from that tiresome task.

* * *

If Igor thought she was going to sit down at one table with his Lady Walsh, he was very much mistaken! She would rather chew on glass than talking to his traitor. How did he dare to bring her here? How did  _he_  dare to talk to her?

"Cousin Violet, I wish you would tell me more about Lady Walsh," Isobel insisted and Violet could tell how thrilled her cousin was by her careless slip at the dining table. If she had only kept her tongue! Well, the damage was done, but she wasn't ready to talk about it - not just yet at least. First, she had to talk to Igor. She swore to God he would get more than he had bargained for when he set her up like this!

She and Isobel were strolling down the terrace. A soft breeze cooled the night air and the sound of the waves crashing against the shore

"I told you everything you need to know about her."

"You said, you think she was your maid. It sounds rather odd, if you ask me!"

"Well, I didn't ask you."

"But didn't you say, the Prince wants to introduce you tonight?" Isobel asked puzzled.

"That's what the Prince said and what won't happen," Violet replied sourly. "I'm done for today - and perhaps with the whole trip!"

Determined she headed for the main door that led inside the foyer. Isobel had to fasten her pace to keep up with Violet. Her bad hip was protesting, but she wished for nothing but some peace and quiet.

"But Cousin Violet…."

Violet stopped in her tracks and Isobel almost ran her over. "Please, Isobel. I'm tired and I need to be alone."

Isobel sighed and nodded. "Of course. I'll see you tomorrow."

Glad her friend was giving up, Violet nodded back at her. "Good night."

* * *

Isobel waited until Violet had vanished and then she went back to the balustrade where the breeze was soft and warm. She looked into the bar and smiled when she saw Dickie. He was on his own. No Natasha, no Larry… she smiled and thought how nice it would be to spend the evening with him.

It was Stewart Rackett who spoiled her plan to join Dickie. As soon as she saw that he was approaching Dickie, she decided to stay where she was. Dickie had told her he didn't know Rackett, but it looked different now that both of them were standing at the bar, talking to each other. There was no formal introduction, no handshake. She doubted Dickie had been lying to her, so the question who Stewart Rackett was and what he wanted, remained.

* * *

Dickie stood at the bar. He was finally on his own, after Amelia and Larry had gone to their room. For a moment he had been tempted to order himself a bottle of whiskey and then he had realized how childish it would be for a man of his age to get drunk, so he settled for a drink at the bar. Deep inside he longed to be with Isobel. With her he could talk things over. She understood him, but he had no right to bother her - at least not with his money problems. Since he had seen Stewart Rackett arriving in the dining room, he knew the mess Cavenham was in, was his fault not Larry's. Larry had become the victim of a brilliant and cold blooded scheme. His greed had led to it, but Rackett had set up a trap and Larry had walked right into it. Dickie didn't know why it happened, but he was sure Rackett had his reasons for coming after him at this point of their lives. Forty years had passed since he had last seen Stewart. Forty years he hadn't heard a single word from him. Forty bloody years…

"I knew I would find you here," Rackett stopped by his side. "I doubt they have your favourite whiskey though."

Dickie groaned and finished his drink. He didn't want to have this conversation right now, but running away was no option either. He was stuck at this bar with company he loathed.

He stared into the mirror behind the bar and studied Rackett's face up close. With grim satisfaction Dickie registered that his opponent hadn't aged with a lot of grace. The scar across his cheek was terrifying and the lack of emotion on his face had caused his features to harden more than necessary. He looked like an old, haggard greyhound. He was younger than Dickie, but he looked jaded and unhappy.

"Don't you have anything to say to me?" Rackett asked.

"Why? What would be the point?"

Rackett laughed. It sounded hollow. "I know, but if you want to keep your estate, you should be a bit more cooperative. I expect some courtesy from you."

"I won't give the satisfaction to beg. If you think cheating the estate out of me and my son will give any kind of recognition or…"

"I'm not looking for anything but justice," Rackett cut him off.

Dickie smiled wistfully. "Justice. You don't know the meaning of the word."

Rackett seemed amused. He crooked his eyebrow, ordered a whiskey and then he asked. "And you do?"

"I know when the world were just you would be dead and Catherine still with us."

Dickie knew he was throwing down the gauntlet, but why beating around the bush? It was what Stewart had come for after all.

For a moment Rackett said nothing, then he cleared his throat, exed the whiskey, and said, "That's rich coming from you. You're the reason she's dead and I'm finally making you pay for it!"

Dickie waited until Rackett had left the bar, before he ordered himself another drink. He needed it.

* * *

Violet was standing on her balcony, stared into the endless darkness of the night, and waited. She had left a message for Igor. She was sure he couldn't resist an invitation to her hotel room. Men were always simple to read and Igor was not an exception - at least not when it came to temptation.

As expected he knocked shortly after eleven o'clock.

"What's the parole?" he asked amused once she had opened the door.

"How about traitor?" she asked and let him in.

"You've lost me, my dear," he said as he looked around to find a sitting accommodation. He found one near the unused fireplace and made himself comfortable.

Violet watched him with her arms crossed over her chest, which seemed to amuse him.

"I see," he said. "So, you've recognized her quicker than I thought you would, but…"

"There is no 'but'," she cut him off. "What on earth were you thinking?"

"Will you let me explain in peace?" he asked his hands raised defensively. She didn't answer and he took it as a yes and continued. "Last year I met her in Paris in one of those soup kitchens and she was the one who recognized me. She apologized for what she has done to us and…,"

"What was she doing in a soup kitchen when she is 'Lady Walsh'?" Violet asked sharply. She was smelling a rat - a big one.

"Let's say Lady Walsh is not the only name she carries..."

Violet groaned and started moving across the room.

"She's helping me to get back what belongs to my family," Igor explained. "I swear I didn't mean to offend you by bringing her here, but she's part of my plan. I need someone like her."

"Go on…"

"After you sacked her, after you returned to England, she left the country. She built herself a new life in Paris - as a stage actress. She's been in retirement for several years now, but she's willing to return to the stage for one last time."

"And the stage is a white house in the hills, called 'La Maison blanche'?" Violet asked.

"Exactly," Igor confirmed and rose. He approached Violet and said, "Please, I need your help with this."

He had stopped right in front of her. His body was almost touching hers, which was definitely too much for her to bear. As always when he came too close she found it hard to think straight and with her head. He had this effect on her and she considered it a weakness that he probably would do so until the day she died.

She made a step back, "I don't see why and how I can be of help. If you want anything from me, you will have to tell me the whole truth or I will leave this god forsaken place tomorrow morning!"

He groaned and rubbed his forehead, "All right. I can see your point."

"How kind!"

"Won't you sit down?" he asked. "This will take a while to explain."

Someone knocked at the door and Violet froze. It was either Isobel or Denker. Violet hoped it was Isobel and was in for a disappointment.

"Milady?" It was Denker. Violet rolled her eyes. With a hint of her head she ordered Igor to go into the other room. Her bedroom.

"Just a moment."

"That's the kindest invitation I had in years," he joked as he walked past her. She waited until he had closed the door behind him, before she asked her maid in.

"Come in, Denker."

* * *

Before Isobel knocked at Dickie's door, she made sure no one was watching her. With a hint of irony she had to think of her mother who had always told her, it would be her downfall to visit a man's bedroom no matter how innocent her intentions were. Well, her mother was dead and Isobel thought that she had already passed the Rubicon more than once anyway and so she knocked.

His eyes widened with surprise when he saw her.

"Isobel?"

"Yes. I've got something for you." She raised the book in her hand so he was able to read the title. 'This Side of Paradise', written by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

Bewildered he let her in.

"Just a moment, please." He quickly crossed the room and locked another door. "It leads to Larry and Amelia's room," he explained.

Isobel narrowed her eyes and pointed towards the door, "I wouldn't sleep a wink if I were you."

"As a matter of fact I don't."

She handed him the book. "In case you have a sleepless night."

He smiled as he took the volume, "Why do I doubt you're here because you want to give me another book?"

"Because you know me so well by now?" she asked coyly and then she became serious again. "I saw you with this man earlier… is he the one who cheated the money out of Larry?"

Dickie placed the book on a table near the window and sighed, "Yes, it was him."

"What did he want?"

"He's the kind who enjoys rubbing salt into people's wounds." He returned to Isobel and took her hands into his.

"In other words he is not a stranger?"

He shook his head. "Not in the least."

"Will you tell me who exactly he is?" she asked softly.

"I would rather not. At least not yet. I need some time to digest his presence."

She nodded. It wasn't the explanation she had hoped for, but she wanted to pressure him either. She lowered her eyes to their intertwined hands and said, "I really enjoyed our afternoon together."

"Me too."

She stretched herself and kissed him softly on the lips. "Whatever happens with Mrs DeWinter or... not, I'll always be there for you," she whispered.

He pulled her into an embrace. "Thank God, it won't come to that," he said after a few moments of silence. "I doubt Stewart Rackett will be satisfied with any kind of money I offer him. That's not what he is after."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"I know he wants revenge and that's something money cannot by. What he longs for is my destruction."

Irritated by his words he leaned back and looked at him. "What are you saying? Why would anyone hold such a grudge against you?"

Dickie crooked his right eyebrow. "Did you see the scar on his face?"

"Yes. Why?"

"I gave him the scar when I tried to kill him."


	6. Dalliances

 

While Violet was talking to her maid, Kuragin inspected the novel on her bedside table. The volume carried the peculiar name "The Enchanted April" written by a female author called Elizabeth von Armin. He found it rather fitting that she had picked a book about women who escaped their life in London to go to the south of Europe. It sounded a bit too trivial for his taste, but he knew Violet well enough to know that she was kinder and much more romantic than she let on. She had hardened since Russia though. There was a solid shell around her, one that made it hard to see the real her that as he believed still existed.

He was not someone who lived in the past, but he remembered their weeks in St. Petersburg with romantic nostalgia. The cold, the snow, the splendour of the Russian court... everything seemed easy, almost endless in those days. Their pathetic attempt to run away had been born between dances and secret rendezvous in hidden places of the palaces. They had acted most foolishly and had failed epicly. He smiled. He would do it all again, because in her presence he felt alive and like a man who was unstoppable, even immortal. She wasn't aware of it, but her energy was fueling him. He doubted she would invite him to stay for the night, but he would lay down his life to share her bed one more time. He looked at the bed, crooked his eyebrow, and scoffed. He was an old fool. He was lucky, if she wouldn't leave France altogether after the revelation of his plans.

* * *

Amelia Grey sneaked down the hallway, hoping no one would see her on her way back to her room. She had ran off when she was sure Larry had fallen asleep and she hoped he hadn't woken up. The last thing she needed was him asking why she had left their bed in the middle of the night. He was too suspicious to believe that she had needed some fresh air. He would probably also smell the other man's after shave on her and she scolded herself for her carelessness. She really had to tell him to use less of it, especially when they had one of their secret trysts.

Amelia hated everything about France. She hated the heat, the language, the part she had to play in this charade. Hopefully all this would be over soon. She longed for rain and mud on green fields.

Just when she thought she had made it, the door to her father-in-law's room opened. Amelia gasped and withdraw behind a corner. Couldn't the old fool be asleep like his son?

She peeked around the corner and what she saw wasn't to her liking. It wasn't her father-in-law who was leaving his room. It was Mrs Crawley. Thank God she was heading into the other direction. Amelia rolled her eyes in annoyance. She didn't know who was worse, Natasha DeWinter or Isobel Crawley. It was unbelievable that two women were chasing the old goat. Once Rackett was through with him, he wouldn't be able to afford to live in a rented cottage, not to mention anything else that wasn't a shag. If these women wanted his money there were in for a big surprise! Natasha DeWinter was nothing but a greedy slut and Isobel Crawley a middle class gold digger. A sour smile appeared on her face. She didn't like either woman, but they kept Dickie Merton's mind off the real issue for his visit. As long as he couldn't decide which woman he preferred, he wouldn't worry too much about his estate. He didn't like the house anyway. It was a cold place and the ghost of his late wife still haunted every room. What a hag she must have been!

Months ago she had hoped marrying Larry would secure her future, but soon after their wedding she had realized he didn't have the spine to be a leader or a provider. He was a spoiled fool who had been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

Her mother had always said, never truly to rely on a man and she had been right. If a woman wanted to survive, she had to take care of herself. And she would do just that. She had found a way to do so. Amelia would provide for herself and it would be her pleasure to see the look on Larry's face when he realized he had lost it all.

* * *

"You've got half an hour," Violet informed Igot when she opened the door for him. To her annoyance he grinned when he walked past her. The man had a nerve!

"What happened to the times when a maid wasn't supposed to judge their employers?" he asked and sat down again. Violet chose the seat right across him so she had a straight look at his face.

"Denker is a blabbermouth and she drinks too much."

Igor chuckled, "What a wild combination."

"Maybe wild, but not rare. So…," she said crisply. "I'm waiting for your explanation about your plans concerning Lady Walsh."

"First I need your word that you won't tell Mrs Crawley everything I tell you."

"Why?"

He sighed and reached inside his pocket. He placed a photograph on the table between them. It showed a group of five people, two women and three men. One of them was a young Igor and one of the women was his late wife Irina. As always Violet hated to admit that Irina had once been a beautiful woman. Nasty, but incredibly beautiful. "Do you recognize them?" he asked, pointing on the two women in the middle.

"One is the Princess," Violet said. "The other one… your mother?" she asked unsure whether she was right. Her meeting with Igor's mother had been brief and she hadn't spoken any English, only a very rusty French, so their conversation had been limited.

"Exactly. The man next to her is my father, the man next to me is my brother Alexey. He died during the revolution."

Violet nodded sadly. She remembered Alexey. He was younger than Igor, wilder and more reckless - a wild figure who couldn't be trusted with money or women.

"Look at the necklaces," Igor said.

"I think I need my glasses." The black and white photographs were blurry and it was late. Her hip protested when she rose to collect them from the desk, but she would rather die before she allowed him to see how her old age could interfere with her mobility.

"The jewellery my mother and Irina are wearing belonged to our family jewels. The size and shape of the diamonds are the same. My father gave them the name "Heart of Dusk" and "Heart of Dawn". He thought only the light of the sun at dusk or dawn could compare to the beautiful reflection of the stones."

Violet took a closer look at the items he had described and suddenly she remembered that Irina had worn the necklace at the wedding. She had admired it from afar, had even envied Irina for the beauty of it. The diamond was set in the shape of a heart and the chain was made of solid silver. It must have been a heavy piece to wear.

"The diamonds were found in India in 1860 and my father cheated them out of the Maharadsha at chess."

"A Maharadsha lost the diamonds?" Violet asked in disbelief.

"He was an idiot," Igor answered nonchalantly. "Not everyone who wears a crown on his head has a brain inside."

She couldn't deny his reasoning. "True."

"Anyway, back in Russia he asked Fabergé to make the necklaces for my mother and my grandmother. When my grandmother passed away, she gave it to Irina."

"What happened to all of it?" Violet asked.

"It got lost - so we thought. The Sowjets took every piece of jewellery they could find. Some they kept, some sold, some they destroyed. Until last year I didn't know what happened to any of our family jewels."

Violet crooked her eyebrow. She couldn't deny that he had caught her interest. "Go on."

He smiled when he realized he had her undivided attention. "As it turned out my dear brother Alexey had taken the jewels, before the comrades could find them or him. As it was his style, he fled the country and ended up in America, where he sold the jewellery. He was killed in the streets of Boston one week after he had sold the stones to a rich business. He had been involved in a fight with other drunks and ended up with a knife in his back."

Violet was shocked. "He left you all in the hand of the revolutionaries and ran away? Just like that? To America of all places?"

Igor shrugged. "You knew Alexey. He never gave a damn about everyone but himself. As far as I am concerned he got what he deserved. He betrayed all of us to save his own skin."

"And you know where the jewellery is now?"

"I do. It's in the luggage of Monsieur Stewart Rackett." He gave her a meaningful smile.

"I see…"

"Rackett bought the jewellery from my brother - perhaps he was the one who had him killed to get his money back. I don't know. More important is that he wants to sell the jewellery now, because he needs to acquire enough money to take over Lord Merton's estate. The real estate scheme Rackett involved young Mister Grey in was very expensive for him. Just as Lord Merton, Rackett needs a lot of money to make it work or otherwise he'll be broke as well. Rumour has it the American mafia is involved too."

"And that's when Lady Walsh comes into play," Violet concluded.

"Exactly. She's my honeytrap, because she's the one who will offer to buy the stones from him. I made sure the offer she made in one of her letters was too tempting for him to ignore."

Violet shook her head in disbelief. "And how do you want to get the jewels back? I mean I doubt you have the means to buy them. I doubt any of us has."

Igor shrugged. "I'm going to steal it, my dear. I'm going to steal it."

* * *

Larry Grey couldn't sleep. Half an hour ago Amelia had sneaked back into their room and had slipped into bed. It had cost him all his will power not to question her secret trip. She had been gone for almost an hour and now she carried the fainted but disgusting scent of cheap after shave. He couldn't believe she so reckless to come to their bed with another man's scent all over her, but apparently he didn't know her very well, but from now on he would have a very close eye on her. He wouldn't be one of those who got cuckolded by their own wife.

* * *

Dickie was restless. After Isobel had left his room he had wanted to go to sleep, but he was too agitated to find any rest. He couldn't concentrate on a book and every time he closed his eyes he saw Stewart's face in front of him. God, how he had hoped he was dead by now! After his sudden escape to the new world only a few days after their fight, he had never heard from Stewart again. He didn't miss him and no one had ever mentioned him again. Seeing him again and realizing he was out to get the estate was a shock. Forty years ago Stewart had sworn revenge for his ousting, but Dickie had never believed he would see it through. In his opinion it was mad to be hold a grudge for so long.

He stepped out onto the balcony. The night was warm and smelled of lavender and… tobacco. He turned his head. Larry was also outside and smoked a cigarette. He was leaning against the banister and stared at the dark sea.

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" Larry asked when he noticed his father. "It's late."

"So, why aren't you asleep?" Dickie returned the question.

Larry shrugged. "I was waiting for my beloved wife to return to our bed," he snarled.

"Is everything all right between you and Amelia?" Dickie asked. He had already spotted that the atmosphere between the young couple had cooled off since their arrival in France, but had kept his impression to himself. Now seemed the right time to ask his son, if his young marriage was already in peril.

"I wish I knew…" Larry said lost in his thoughts. "There's something off about her."

"Why don't you ask her?"

Larry chuckled, "Are you offering marital advice now? Forgive me, but I doubt that's your strong suit."

Dickie sighed. Of course Larry had a point. His marriage to Larry's late mother had been a disaster from the very beginning. They hadn't been well-suited and in thirty years of marriage they had never reached the point where they had at least become friends or allies.

"Let's say I know that not talking about an issue makes it worse," Dickie said, hoping he had found a diplomatic answer. Larry threw his cigarette over the banister and watched its glow fading in the dark.

"Talking…. Where does it really lead to when she won't tell the truth?"

"You won't know if you don't try."

Silence fell between them. After a minute Larry asked, "Did you ever feel anything but dislike for my mother?"

"We had some good times," Dickie answered vaguely.

"I can't remember them," Larry admitted. "All I remember is the silence around the dinner table when you wanted to avoid a fight or the loud arguing when the two of you couldn't."

"We were not a good match," Dickie admitted. "And I'm sorry we didn't try to make it work. I guess there comes a point when you just stop trying. I'm not proud of it."

Larry nodded. "I guess you're right. Why didn't you marry someone else then?"

Dickie wasn't sure it was wise to answer Larry's question, but he didn't want to lie to him either and so he said,"Because the woman I wanted to marry died."

"Was she your Sybil?"

Dickie thought about Larry's choice of words and nodded. "I think she was. After her death it took me decades to fall in love with another woman."

"Curtain up for Mrs Crawley," Larry concluded smugly. "Or is it Mrs DeWinter? I have to admit I've lost count."

"Is there anyone on earth you don't look down on?" Dickie asked disgusted. "I wonder what Mrs Crawley or Mrs DeWinter ever did to you to deserve this demeaning treatment."

"It's not what they did to me," Larry answered. "It's what they do to you."

"You've lost me."

"They make you happy."

Dickie frowned, shook his head in disbelief, and went inside his room without biding his son good night.

* * *

"Tell me one thing," Violet said when she walked Igor to the door. She had spent the last forty five minutes listening to his - in her eyes - absurd plan to regain the property the jewels, and now she wanted to hear what he was trying to keep her in the dark about.

"How does Mrs DeWinter fit into your plans?" she asked.

"Why do you think she's part of my plans?" Kuragin asked.

Violet's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Her first name is Russian, her accent is well-concealed but Russian, and you said yourself you introduced her to Lord Merton. She's just as little a simple acquaintance of yours as I am."

He smiled, almost proud she had dared to ask that question. "I'm glad you consider yourself more than just a simple acquaintance of mine."

"Don't try to avoid answering my question," she said.

"Madame DeWinter is not just an acquaintance," he admitted when he realized she wouldn't allow him to leave without an answer. "She's here to help me."

"Is she your mistress?" Violet asked bluntly. Igor's response was loud laughter. "That's the biggest compliment I've received in decades!" He couldn't stop laughing and Violet rolled her eyes.

"Forgive me, but does Madame DeWinter look like a woman who has to please an old, poor, disowned, and outcasted aristocrat to make a living?"

"Well, she seems to think pleasing Lord Merton will get her somewhere," Violet argued. She was thinking of Isobel and how much the whole scheme hurt her. If she could find a way to spare her friend the pain of losing the man she loved, she would do so.

"Can't you tell your friend to stop chasing Lord Merton?" she asked.

"Would it please you, if I did?" he asked.

"It would."

"And what will I get in return, if I do?" he asked. She knew he was teasing, flirting with her, but it didn't fail to have an effect on her. He stepped closer and raised his hand, as if he wanted to caress her cheek, but he didn't touch her. It was an intimate gesture that made her heart race.

"My gratitude," she answered.

He smiled and nodded. "I'll remind you about that when the time has come."

She was sure he would. She didn't move when he leaned in to kiss her. Just as his lips touched hers, Denker knocked at the door. Violet withdrew and he cursed - in Russian.

"Saved by the bell," he mumbled and opened the door. Denker almost stumbled inside. Violet was sure she had been waiting behind the door, her ear pressed against it.

"Good night, Lady Grantham." Kuragin made a small bow, nodded at Denker, and left.

"Wasn't that…." Denker looked after Kuragin, but Violet cut her off.

"Yes, he was and you're late."

The maid swallowed and hastened after Violet into the bedroom. "I'm so sorry, Milady. I've lost track of time!"

* * *

The next morning Isobel woke up with a headache. Her night had been disrupted by chaotic dreams about Dickie being involved in an ugly, violent fight with Stewart Rackett. Aside from the fact that he had tried to kill Rackett in a fit of temper Dickie hadn't told her nothing about the circumstances. But if she added the little details from Violet's tale about Rackett's mysterious escape to America many years ago, the mystery solved itself rather quickly. She wouldn't push him about the details though. Not just yet, since it had been obvious last night that he wasn't ready to talk about it.

While she enjoyed some tea and small breakfast she read the newspaper. She wanted to meet Violet for a walk around eleven o'clock and wondered if she should write a few letters home, when someone knocked at her door. She looked down on herself. She wasn't properly dressed yet and hoped it was Denker with a message from the Dowager rather than anyone else.

To her surprise it was Dickie who looked like someone who hadn't slept a wink.

"I'm too early. Forgive me, I'll be back later," he said when he registered that she wasn't ready to receive visitors.

"I'm a bit late this morning. Please, come in!" she said. After a short moment of hesitation he nodded and entered her room. "Are you all right?" she asked worried.

"I didn't sleep very well," he admitted. She offered him a chair at her table. "I had a fight with Larry."

"I'm sorry to hear that," she said.

"It's nothing unusual between us. What bothers me about it is that he's right about some things."

"I can't follow you," she answered puzzled. He really looked awfully exhausted and she reached out to caress his cheek. The tender gesture put a smile on his face.

"It's about Stewart. Mister Rackett. Larry wants to negotiate with him about the estate. This morning I tried to tell him it's useless, but he won't listen to me. He thinks I owe it to him to fight for the estate. I couldn't bring myself to tell him that Stewart won't even consider a deal, because he's out for revenge and not business."

She understood. "Sooner or later you'll have to tell him the truth."

"I know, but that'll only estrange us more…," he sighed and looked lovingly at her. "Do you have any idea how much I envy you for your relationship with Matthew?"

She smiled sadly. "We weren't perfect, you know. I think I've tested his patience more than once."

"But he loved you and you loved him."

"Yes, we did." She leaned forward to kiss him. It was the only gesture she could think of to comfort him. The slow, almost lazy kiss became more and more heated. It expelled the memories of her nightmare from the night before and soon her body yearned for his hands on her naked skin. She broke the kiss and under his puzzled facial expression, she rose from her chair and settled down on his lap.

"That's very daring, my dear" he mumbled just before she recaptured his mouth with hers. His hands lay on her hips, moved upwards and helped her to remove the silk dressing down from her shoulders. His lips travelled down her neck, worshipping every inch they passed.

Was she throwing herself against him in the vain hope he wouldn't want to share another woman's bed if she was available for him? She thought about her offer from last night and she had meant it. She was ready to be his mistress under all circumstances, if that was what he wanted. She wanted to make sure that no other woman, no matter how young and beautiful she was, could make him feel, the way she did.

"I love you," he mumbled against her throat. She closed her eyes and a soft moan escaped her throat when his warm hands found the way under her nightgown. She broke the kiss and leaned back to establish eye contact with him. The hunger and the love displayed in his eyes made her blush. He really did love her and the knowledge meant more to her than she could express. She was about to phrase a response to his declaration, but she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Oh my…" the colour of her face deepened and she climbed from his lap. With rising panic she tried to make herself presentable, but her nightwear was completely astray and her hair a mess. She quickly picked up her dressing gown and slipped into it.

As just annoyed with the interruption Dickie groaned. "Should I hide in the closet?"

"I think the bathroom will do," she said and waited until Dickie had vanished before she opened the door. It was a waiting boy with a big bouquet of red roses that was almost too heavy for him to carry.

"Madame Crawley?" he asked. "For you."

"Well… merci," she replied and hastened to get her purse to give the boy a tip.

"He's gone," she said and took the card that was stuck within the flowers. "Was that you?" she asked pointing at the flowers on her arm.

"I'm afraid not," he admitted "I would have sent you gerbera."

She gave him a soft smile. "I'm glad to hear you remember my favourite flowers."

"So who sent them?"

"Let me see…." She placed the bouquet on the table and opened the small envelope. Her face became white after she finished reading the message.

"It's from Mister Rackett," she said. "He asks me to have tea with him this afternoon."

"He did what?" Only once or twice in the past Isobel had seen Dickie losing his temper. It usually happened when he was angry with his sons. Enraged he took the card and read it.

"I won't go…," she tried to soothe him, but he wasn't listening to her. "Why does he even know you?" he blurted out. "Have you spoken to him? What are you not telling me?"

"No, I have never talked to him! He did send a bottle of champagne to Lady Grantham and me, but I didn't think much of it and…"

He cut her off, "Why didn't you tell me any of this?"

His anger was as irritating as it was unfair against her, especially minutes after they had almost made love. "As I said, I didn't think much of it! Would you please, calm down!"

"Listen, I don't want you anywhere near him. If it were for me you wouldn't even stay in the same room with him!"

"I can take care of myself," she reminded him in a high pitched voice. "I don't plan to run off to Gretna Green with him!"

"I'm serious!"

"Me too!"

Their argument was ridiculous, something she would like to remind him about, but she had never seen him this stubborn.

"Tell me, you won't go to see him. Not for tea or anything else."

Isobel couldn't believe that Dickie was actually jealous of Stewart Rackett, a man she had barely met and knew next to nothing about. Well, this way he got at least a taste of his own medicine.

"If you promise me not to have tea or anything else with Mrs DeWinter," she snapped back.

Dickie gasped and then, as if all the anger had suddenly left him, he scoffed, "Well, I guess I deserve this."

"Yes, in a way, you do," she admitted and decided she wanted him to leave her alone. "I think I have to get dressed now."

"Of course, you have." Unsure what to say or do he just stood there. Then he went to her and placed a quick kiss on her forehead. She knew it was meant as a peace offering, but it felt cold compared to the way he had kissed her before. "I hope I'll see you later."

"I'm sure we will - somehow."

Once he was gone, she disposed of the roses in the bin, but kept the small card and read it again. She didn't care if Dickie was against it or not. She wanted to get to know Stewart Rackett. He was the key to all of this and he was interested in her. She couldn't tell why, but she wanted to find out what the man wanted from her of all people.

******tbc*******

 


	7. Rien ne va plus

 

Igor Kuragin was sitting in the lobby of the hotel and read his morning paper. He always chose the same armchair, because it offered the best view at the reception and the lift at the same time. Sometimes it felt like sitting in the first line in a theatre while the play unfolded right in front of his eyes.

Today he couldn't concentrate on his paper or the passing hotel guests though. He was still reminiscing about the other night in Violet's suite. His almost kiss with her had brought back memories from the past and it also made him feel guilty. Sure, he had invited her to France to be close to her. He wanted to win her heart back, but he was also using her to his advantage. The plan - carefully made up in his dirty apartment in Paris - had come as a handsome package, but his determination to go through with every aspect of it was crumbling. He still wanted - needed - the jewels back, but he wanted to do so without breaking anyone's heart. It was most important that he talked to Natasha about Lord Merton.

Sometimes he wasn't sure Natasha's interest in the man was just an act. He feared she had a genuine interest in him, though he doubted she was falling in love. He knew she had an infamous past with his son and in Kuragin's eyes it was all about revenge and making Larry Grey jealous. It was the kind of game that was doomed to create heartbreak and sorrow. He had made a promise to Violet and he wanted to keep it.

The doors of the lift opened and Natasha DeWinter stepped out. Her pale face stood in waste contrast to her red dress, but as always she looked hauntingly beautiful when she approached the reception with fast steps and leashed out her anger at the poor manager who didn't know what was happening to him.

Kuragin chuckled, folded his paper and leaned back. The curtain was up and the play was just beginning…

* * *

After Isobel and Violet returned from their walk they picked their favourite spot on the terrace to enjoy a refreshment. As Isobel had expected Violet was highly amused about Stewart Rackett's invitation for tea and Dickie's reaction to it.

"I don't know why you're so upset," Violet said after the waiter had brought them some lemonade. "I thought you want Lord Merton to be jealous!"

Isobel's reaction was indignant. "I don't want him to act like some controlling, overbearing husband. It's not a role that suits him very well!"

"Well, the one comes with the other. You can't expect him to be jealous without marking his territory. That's not how it works!"

"I'm not sure I want to share your knowledge about the subject!"

Violet chuckled, "Touché. By the way, I received a message from the Prince this morning. He wrote that Mister Rackett is invited for a high stakes poker game at the local casino tonight. Apparently it was all Larry's idea. It's his plan to lull Rackett, because he wants him to rethink his plans for Cavenham. It looks like a vain attempt, but knowing Larry Grey it doesn't come as a surprise."

"Is the Prince invited as well?" Isobel asked. "And if, how can he afford to take part in such a game? And where does he get his information from?" The more she thought about it, the more Isobel thought Kuragin's part in this was suspicious to say the least.

Violet shrugged. "I think he has someone on his payroll. Perhaps someone who works at the hotel or the casino."

"That doesn't explain how he can afford all of this," Isobel pointed out. Violet's explanation made sense, but it didn't make the man any more trustworthy in her eyes.

Violet toyed with her cane. "I think I know how he can afford it, but I doubt he wants me to tell you about it. Let's say, even I met him in Russia he always had a card up his sleeve."

"He's a gambler?" Isobel shook her head. Violet was right. She really didn't want to know! She enjoyed a game of cards like everyone else, but she hated gambling for money.

"There's something else I wanted to talk to you about," Violet changed the subject. "You mentioned to me that Dickie knew Rackett from the past?"

"Yes. He made some mysterious hints about an attempt to kill him. Apparently Dickie was the one who gave Rackett the scar…" She broke off and shuttered. "I can't really believe it. I always thought he couldn't hurt a fly."

"I always say a man's dirty deeds are fueled by his motivation," Violet said. "I've given it some thought the other night and think I know exactly what happened between Lord Merton and Mister Rackett!"

Violet looked rather pleased with herself. Her facial expression exposed the kind of smugness that Isobel always annoyed about her friend. "Do you care to enlighten me?" she asked quirkily.

"Of course. If I remember correctly, Dickie was once engaged to the Honourable Catherine Tate. She was a fabulous beauty and a very sweet, young woman. A blonde if my memory serves correctly. Their wedding date was already set when the news about Catherine's sudden demise did the rounds. Her family told everyone she died from pneumonia, but very soon some rumours about the true cause of her death spread like wildfire."

"And what did people say?" Isobel asked when Violet's dramatic pause took a little too long for her taste. Isobel knew that gossip was not the most reliable sources of all, but very often there was a shred of truth in it.

"They said she committed suicide. Something about cutting her veins open in the bathtub."

Isobel frowned. "Does anyone know why?"

Violet shrugged. "No, but it was all very sad and your Romeo needed years to overcome her death before he settled for the first woman that crossed his way. Well, he was the heir and he had to provide another one. He did his duty, but we know how that turned out."

"So that's the story, how Ada became Lady Merton," Isobel concluded.

"Indeed. A nasty woman if ever there was one. You know…" Violet broke off. "As I said, it's nothing but rumours, but…"

"Yes?"

"About two weeks after Catherine Tate's funeral, something else happened at Cavenham Park. It was quite mysterious and I doubt many people had the courage to question the Greys about it."

"Go on…" Violet really knew how to string out the moment.

"No one ever speaks of him, but Dickie Merton had a younger brother. His name was Stuart and he was a scallawag. Forty years ago he suddenly disappeared and no one ever heard of him again. Dickie's father told everyone he had eloped with a scullery maid and went to America, but I doubt many people believed that story."

Isobel narrowed her eyebrows. "You think Mister Rackett is Dickie's younger brother?" she asked.

"It's at least a possibility. Let's assume Catherine's death was not the result of an illness but indeed suicide. What if the men argued about Catherine's untimely death which resulted in banishment of the younger brother while the heir stayed on to fulfil his destiny?"

Isobel thought about Dickie and his reluctance to share his past with Stewart Rackett with her. Both men were similar in age and their physical shape. It was not impossible, but why would he come back now after all these years? There was only one way to find out…

"Perhaps we'll know more after I had tea with him," Isobel said.

"If I were I wouldn't tell Mister Rackett about your…connection to Lord Merton," Violet suggested. "We don't want you end up suicidal, do we?"

Isobel almost choked into her glass and gave the Dowager a disapproving glance.

"Your bedside manner is uplifting is always."

Violet smiled and sipped with relish from her lemonade. "It's something I'm known for all across the county!"

"Ladies…"

Isobel and Violet looked up. Prince Kuragin had approached their table and made a small bow. "May I join you?" he asked.

"Be our guest," Violet said and offered him the third seat at the table.

"I have something for you," he announced and produced two envelops. "With the best regards from Lady Walsh."

While Violet ignored the letter he had placed in front of her, Isobel opened hers. With curiosity she scanned the lines. "She's inviting us for the weekend?"

"What day is today?" Violet asked.

"Thursday," Isobel answered promptly. "And she expects us to join her for a dinner party tomorrow evening."

"She is," Kuragin confirmed. "She's heard about the unfortunate events from last night and thinks it's safer for you and some other guests to spend the weekend with her."

"Events? What are you talking about?" Violet asked and Isobel noticed the irritation in her voice.

"Haven't you heard about it?" Kuragin asked. "Last night someone broke into Madame DeWinter's room and stole her jewellery."

"How…awful," Isobel said. 'Convenient' was the word that had first come to her mind, but she held it back. "I guess I'm lucky to be poor."

"Who else is invited to join her for the weekend?" Violet inquired sourly. Kuragin chuckled and started counting, "Let me see…. There is of course Madame DeWinter and her daughter, you and Mrs Crawley, Mister Rackett and his assistant, whatever his name is. He insisted he joined us, don't ask me why he needs a lapdog more than a valet. Americans!"

He reached inside his jacket and pulled out two more envelopes. "These two I will deliver next. They are for Lord Merton and his family."

"Why on earth would she invite them?" Violet blurted out. "And why should they accept this rather curious invitation?"

Kuragin laughed, "You're always so wary about people's motives. I can assure you that each and every person on Lady Walsh's list as their own personal reason to attend."

"And how will we get there?" Violet asked.

"I will arrange everything," Kuragin assured her. "You will have to worry about nothing aside from getting packed."

"Aside from my jewellery, you mean" Violet snapped.

Isobel wanted to chuckle, but Violet's glare stopped her and so she looked away, wondering what Kuragin would answer.

"That will be safe with me as well," he said. "I trust I will see the two of you tonight at the casino?"

"I doubt it," Isobel said. "I hate gambling."

"I advise you to see it as a…," he broke off, looking for the right phrase, "Scientific subject. I think Lord Merton will be there as well. His son made certain arrangements."

"Lord Merton is free to do whatever he wants." Her smile was forced and Kuragin realized he had overstepped the mark.

"Forgive me, but I meant what I said that you shouldn't overvalue certain circumstances about his stay here." He rose, bowed, and left.

"Well, I'm glad I wasn't the one who made things awkward," Violet said and finished her lemonade.

* * *

Isobel picked her dress for her engagement with Stewart Rackett very carefully. She didn't want to choose anything she had worn in Dickie's company lately. It didn't feel right and so she picked what she had baptized her 'pineapple dress'. It was one of her favourites. The cut was simple and hopefully too simple to make an impression on Rackett. She would never admit it, but the man had an unsettling impact on her. The story Violet had told her about the late Catherine Tate didn't add to her enthusiasm about him. The only reason for her meeting him was that she wanted to get to the bottom of his history with Dickie. Perhaps she would find a way to help him - if he were to overcome his silly jealousy.

Stewart Rackett was already waiting for Isobel when she arrived in the tea room. He put his book aside and welcomed her with a grand gesture.

"Mrs Crawley! I'm so happy you came! I wasn't sure you would!"

"Well, neither was I," she responded as she sat down.

"I was prepared for you not showing up though." He pointed at the book on the table. The title read 'Manhattan Transfer', written by John Dos Passos. She had heard about it, but it had never caught her interest. "Do you know it?"

Isobel shook her head. "I'm afraid I prefer Virginia Woolf," she countered with a smile.

"A pity. I've read a book that describes Manhattan in a better. It's one big jungle, people never seem to settle in it. They just rush through their lives." He took the chair opposite her and studied her with unhidden curiosity.

"You must excuse me," he said when he realized that she was staring back at him. "I know it's not a very gentlemanly thing to scrutinize a lady, but I wondered if we might know each other."

"How come?"

"Let's say the name Crawley is very familiar to me. Are you related to the Earl of Grantham?"

"My husband was," Isobel answered. "And my grandson is the heir of Downton."

Rackett nodded. "I see. It's been a while since I have set foot into rural Yorkshire, but I remember all the old names. So I assume you are at least acquainted with the Grey family? They live at Cavenham Park."

"I am," Isobel answered and now she was sure that Rackett was indeed Dickie's long lost brother. "Lord Merton is the godfather of my daughter-in-law. As far as I know he's staying here as well."

"He is. I've wondered why you and Lady Grantham are not socializing with him and his family."

"Do you know Larry Grey?" Isobel asked in return.

"I do... actually I'm doing business with him."

"Well, there you have your answer!"

Rackett laughed. "You surprise me! I never knew a Crawley this outspoken."

"You would be surprised about the Crawleys and what we are," Isobel replied dignified and wondered if he had ever met Violet.

The waiter arrived with the tea and Isobel was relieved for the interruption. Extracting useful information from him would be more difficult than she thought. She had to be on her toes, if she didn't want to raise his suspicion.

"I think this is going to be a very interesting afternoon," Rackett said and leaned back into his chair.

"So, now you know almost everything about me," she said. "Tell me about you. What brings you here of all places?"

* * *

Natasha DeWinter stood in her bathroom, panting with pain. Cold sweat was running down her forehead and she was trembling. She was about to collapse. It was what the doctors had warned her about. Sooner or later she wouldn't be able to endure it. The cancer was eating at her, setting her bones on fire. Only the syringe in her hand could now provide her some release. Heroine. It killed most of the pain and helped through the day and the endless, sleepless nights when she feared for her daughter's future. She had never liked to rely on anything or anyone, but the drug was the one thing that kept her going. Her supply was short though and soon she needed to find the means to stock it up. She had already sold some of her jewellery to someone who didn't mind where it came from. The hotel management and the police she had told it had been stolen. Igor suspected nothing, since the tale of her stolen bracelet fit perfectly into the narrative of the thief who was sneaking around. Her time was running out though and she needed to act quickly, before her illness became too obvious to hide. She needed to make her move to seduce Lord Merton at the house party and she needed to become Lady Merton as quickly as possible.

Determined she filled the syringe and gave herself a shot. The poison ran through her veins and slowly her breathing became steadier. Natasha bit her lip and leaned against the cold wall. Slowly she sank down, her eyes closed, almost in perfect peace.

* * *

Stewart Rackett exed his whiskey, took a long drag from his cigar, and placed his cards on the table. He had a straight flush, Larry Grey only a couple of Kings. The room was so quiet one could hear a pin drop. After the first couple of games the other players had left the table. The most interesting fellow had been the former Russian Prince. He was a good sport and he had played sensibly enough to end up with a reasonable amount of money.

"Sorry, boy. Maybe next time." Rackett grinned at him. Larry Grey was a fool. Not even his bastard brother Dickie deserved to be burdened with a son like this. He was in a generous mood though. His afternoon had been extremely successful. His tea, it had been ages since he had last enjoyed a perfect afternoon tea, had been a wonderful experience. Mrs Crawley was as enchanting as he had imagined her. Her boldness was almost American and her beauty and style breathtaking. She reminded him of Catherine. Dear, beautiful Catherine, who had been such a lively, vibrant creature…

He wouldn't make the same mistakes with Mrs Crawley he had made with her. Isobel Crawley wasn't the kind of woman who fell easily for a man. She was cautious, virtuous, and well educated and intelligent. In order to gain her trust he would have to take it slowly, to make sure he didn't scare her away. He wasn't out to recruit a mistress after all. He could have as many women as he liked. At his age he expected more from life than another young gold digger who was willing to spread her legs for him in exchange for some bills on the bedside table. He craved for more, much more. Once he was done with Cavenham Park, he wanted to settle down for good. He wanted to retire. Not here though. He wanted to go back to America. Perhaps he would end up in New Port in a nice cottage with a beautiful wife by his side.

"I want to talk to you, Mister Rackett," Larry said. "I think I've found a way to repay the money I owe you."

"How interesting." He didn't care for the money Larry had to offer, but he had other ideas.

"I think you will be pleased with my suggestion," Larry said.

"Why don't you listen to me first. I want to offer you a deal that will insure you won't lose the estate and your money."

"Really?" Rackett registered the mixture of hope and fear on Larry's face with amusement. The man was easy to read and easy to lead on.

"Yes. It will only require one thing."

"Which is?" Larry was already taking the bait like a hungry fish.

Rackett leaned forward and looked Larry straight into the eye. "It's very easy. If you don't want to lose your inheritance, you'll have to oust your father from the estate and if possible the county altogether."

* * *

Isobel had never been to a casino before, but the place was even worse than she had expected it to be. The decadence and the waste for sheer entertainment was unpreceded, at least for her experience. What good the money lost in here, could do for people who were misfortunate than she was!

The Dowager felt misplaced for completely different reasons, but she seemed to have found her own kind of entertainment. For over half an hour now she was chatting with Prince Kuragin who was sitting at their table that was located far away from the excitement around the roulette table.

Isobel couldn't say what the two were talking about, because she was distracted. Across the room, way behind the roulette table, Dickie was standing next to Natasha DeWinter. The couple was engaged in a lively discussion. Natatsha, more effusive and pale than Isobel had ever seen her, was tilting her head and her eyes sparkled gleefully while she clang to Dickies' lips. Isobel could slap him for looking so enchanted in the other woman's presence. Would he still marvel at Natasha if their morning hadn't gone so horribly wrong? Suddenly she wasn't sure it wouldn't have made a difference, if they had made love that morning.

"Excuse me for a moment," she said and rose. Surprised, she was actually saying something Kuragin and Violet fell silent.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked and Kuragin rose.

"Of course. I just want to get a breath of fresh air. Don't mind me."

Isobel hastened outside. The terrace was quite frequented by other guests, but no one cared about her and she didn't have to watch Dickie. She shook her head when a waiter offered her a glass of champagne.

"Don't you enjoy yourself?" When the waiter appeared Dickie behind him. He gave her a smile that Isobel didn't return. She hated how jovial he seemed compared to their argument in the morning. But then he had been enjoying himself in Mrs DeWinter's company all evening.

"It seems you've enjoyed your evening much more than I did."

"What makes you think that?" he asked.

"Mrs DeWinter is a very lively companion. I hope she won't wear you out."

He repaid her snark with a smile. "She's has a bit too much to drink, but she's still very charming."

"Well, I'm sure that makes it easier for you to reach an understanding with her."

"Who says I want to reach an understanding with her?"

"Your body language."

"I'm glad to hear you watch me so closely."

"Oh, be silent!" She was annoyed with herself. Why was she even talking to him?

"How was your afternoon tea? Did you enjoy yourself?" he asked. There was no amusement left in his voice and for the first time she looked him in the eye.

"Not very," she admitted truthfully. "Mister Rackett has a very male problem."

"Which is?"

"He's talking about himself all the time."

He chuckled. "He's always been like that."

"Is he really your brother?"

Her question stunned him. "Did he tell you that?"

"No. He was quite tight lipped about everything that didn't involve earning money and ways to spend it."

"My brother died forty years ago."

"You mean your family chased him away forty years ago."

"Phrase it how you want, to me he's dead."

"I don't know you like this… bitter. He must have hurt you very much." She resisted the wish to run her fingers through his hair.

"It wasn't me who got hurt by him. It was someone else."

"And her name was Catherine, wasn't it?" she asked and added. "Cousin Violet told me about her death."

Dickie shook his head. "With her endless knowledge about everyone she would make a good librarian."

"I doubt she would appreciate the comparison. What happened to Catherine?"

"Please, I…"

"Please, tell me. I just want to understand where all this bad blood is coming from."

"It's not that I don't trust you. It's bad enough she had to die before her time. I don't want to stain her memory."

"Every secret you tell me is safe with me," she assured him.

"This isn't the time or the place."

"I think I'll go now," he said. "Larry and my dear brother enjoyed a game of cards. Knowing Larry he lost my last pair of shoes or the two will work out a plan to oust me."

"Does he know who Mister Rackett is?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, not yet, unless Rackett told him."

"Shouldn't you talk to Larry and tell him all about it?" she wondered.

"I doubt that would change a thing." He sighed wearily and gave her a nod. "Good night, Isobel."

She wanted him to stay, wanted to ask him to come to her room later at night, but she didn't find the courage to invite him. He didn't seem to expect an invitation either and left.

With every step that led him away from her, her heart became heavier. He returned to Natasha DeWilde who was talking to Prince Kuragin and Violet. Isobel's scheming self told her to join them, but her bruised ego told her to stay away. In the background she saw Larry Grey arriving. He was drinking champagne and a mischievous smile was plastered all over his face.

"A beautiful woman like you should never be on her own."

Annoyed, because she recognized the voice, Isobel turned her head. Stewart Rackett was approaching her. He carried two glasses of champagne and handed her one of it.

"I'm really not in the mood for champagne," she said.

"There's never a wrong time to drink champagne," he said. "I once attended a house party where they served champagne for breakfast."

"Golly."

"Travel with me and I'll give you champagne every day."

"That sounds as if you want to make me drunk," she joked.

"Actually, you're the kind of woman I prefer sober," he said earnestly. "And I'm serious about one thing: If you were mine I'd give you anything you want whenever you want it."

"You don't know me," she said, astonished by his bold approach. "You have no idea who I am."

He made one more step towards her. Instinctively she made a step sidewards. "I'm sorry," she said. "I think I have to go now. My cousin is waiting for me."

"Mrs Crawley, please forgive me. I didn't mean to insult you."

"You didn't insult me," she said and returned the champagne. "I'm just tired."

"Of course. I heard we will see each other tomorrow at Lady Walsh's."

"I think we will."

"I look forward to it. Good night Mrs Crawley."

"Good night, Mister Rackett."

******tbc******


	8. Regret

 

Natasha DeWinter and her hostess Lady Priscilla Walsh were standing on the balcony that oversaw the driveway. Almost everyone invited had arrived. Now the last car with Lady Grantham and Isobel Crawley stopped and both women climbed out.

"Are you nervous?" Natasha asked while she watched Lady Grantham and her companion ascending the staircase. Again the actress was brilliantly dressed up to play the role of the eccentric widow who loved and collected jewellery from across the world. Today she wore a hat that reminded Natasha of a gigantic cart wheel - in pink. The feather was violet and was worthy of a Musketeer. The outfit was ridiculous but fitted the role perfectly.

Lady Walsh shrugged, "No, I don't think so. Though I'm not sure how I will react when I have to face her. She can be scary."

"I should think so." Natasha had no doubt that Lady Grantham could be awe inspiring in her fury.

"I bet he's nervous, though." Priscilla pointed to Igor Kuragin. He was standing on the other side of the balcony with Lord Merton. The men were watching the women's arrival as well and Natasha wondered what their conversation was about.

"It's a very illustrious party that the Prince has gathered here," Lady Walsh said. "I hope it's worth the trouble."

"Don't worry," Natasha said. "It will be worth it and you will get your share of the cake."

"I hope so! Renting this place has cost me a fortune."

"If you want to fry a big fish you need a big bait."

Lady Walsh contemplated Natasha's words and said, "I wonder if you and Igor are thinking about the same fish though."

* * *

"Why don't you tell Mister Rackett to leave Mrs Crawley alone?" Kuragin asked Dickie Merton.

"That would only encourage him," Dickie said. His eyes lay attentively on Isobel who was talking to Denker and a footman while Lady Grantham had already vanished inside the house. "He would see it as a challenge to win her over."

"Isn't Mrs Crawley far too intelligent to fall for a man like him?" Kuragin asked.

"It's not so much about her," Dickie answered. "He's someone who poisons everything he touches."

"You sound superstitious," Kuragin remarked dryly.

"Aren't we all a bit superstitious?"

"I think the key is in the planning." The former prince gave Dickie a smile. "And if my plan works Mister Rackett's mind will be on other things than Mrs Crawley. I can promise you that much."

"Are you sure you still don't want to tell me what it is that you are planning?" Dickie asked.

Kuragin shook his head. "No. The less you know, the better."

Dickie nodded, but he had his doubts. He didn't like secrets and schemes. In his experience nothing good had ever come of them.

* * *

While Violet had retreated to her room to take a nap, Isobel felt too restless to lay down or to read and so she went outside. There was a beautiful, extensive garden on the other side of the driveway that looked inviting enough to have a look around. She hoped the exercise would distract her a bit.

The last evening at the casino had left a gloomy impression on her. Her conversation with Dickie and the not very subtle pass from Stewart Rackett were still very much on her mind. He hadn't scared her, but his advances had shown her that the only man she was interested in was Dickie. He was the one she longed for. He was the one she wanted to flirt with. He was the one she wanted to share her bed with and nothing Stewart Rackett said or did would change that.

The two were may be brothers, but their demeanour couldn't be more different. Deep down she knew how much Dickie hated it that their relationship had turned into an affair instead of a proper marriage. If that were the case she didn't have to wonder if he were interested in someone like Natasha DeWinter.

She felt it every time they made love or when she sensed how he stole a glance from her. Stewart Rackett, she was sure of it, wouldn't feel the slightest sense of regret after he had seduced her. He was the kind of man who took what he wanted without asking permission.

Still she wondered if it wasn't possible for the brothers to bury their old hatchet. Forty years ago the brothers had been in love with the same woman and the last thing she wanted was a repetition of this scenario. Her idea to befriend Rackett to help Dickie had turned out to be a silly, imprudent scheme that she needed to end, before it ended badly.

She strolled along the rose beds and headed for the park benches near a hedge. She picked one who stood in the shadows and sat down. From her spot she had a good view across the park and the house. 'La Maison blanche' was much bigger than it had appeared from the town. Its ten bedrooms and the grand sized rooms downstairs offered more space than she had imagined - just not enough space to avoid Mrs DeWinter, Mister Rackett or the Greys. She hated the idea of sharing a table with Larry. Knowing him he would surely ruin every meal out of pure spite.

She looked up to the big balcony and saw Dickie standing at the balustrade. She saw his hesitation before he raised his hand to greet her. She waved back and smiled up at him - only to realize he was standing too far away to notice it.

"May I join you?"

Isobel startled and lowered her hand as if she had been caught red handed with her hand in the till.

"Mister Rackett! You scared me!"

"I'm so sorry. That wasn't my intention." He took off his hat and bowed his head. He looked like a scolded schoolboy.

"Never mind."

"May I sit down?" he asked. "I wish to talk to you."

"Be my guest." She slipped aside to offer him a seat. Since her hopes to escape him a little while longer were destroyed, she put on a brave face and smiled at him.

"Thank you." He drew a deep breath and said, "I wanted to catch you alone, because I want to apologize."

"For what?" she asked, the surprise written all over her face.

"I think I was a bit too harsh and pushy last night. I was besetting and I want to apologize for it."

"Well, I appreciate the sentiment, but you didn't insult me." To say she was surprised by his humbleness was an understatement. It almost felt as if he were putting on an act, but she didn't want to judge him prematurely.

"I think I did. I also think I should tell you something about me. Something that might be of interest for you."

"Go on, please."

"I told you I was doing business with Mister Grey, but that's not the whole truth."

"So, there's another reason for your trip to Europe?"

"Yes and no… I saw you waving at Lord Merton." Rackett looked up to the balcony and Isobel followed his gaze. Dickie was still standing there and even though he seemed to enjoy the view down onto the village, she was sure he was watching them.

"Yes..." she held her breath. "It seemed unkind not to return his greeting."

"That's not what I mean - though I would hate to think you were close to him. No, what I meant to say is that Lord Merton happens to be my older brother."

She did her best to look surprised. "Your brother? But your name…"

"Is different. I changed it when I moved to America. Back then I swore I wouldn't return to England or my family estate. I wanted to leave it all behind and I've kept that promise for forty years, but now things have changed."

"In what way?" she asked curiously.

"Larry Grey, Lord Merton's son, owes me a lot of money. Money he can only pay back when his father gives it to him - and he can only do so, if he sells the estate - or, of course, he can hand over the estate to me. It's either way. Cavenham Park is practically mine."

"Forgive me, but it sounds as if you planned this all along."

He shrugged, "Perhaps I did."

"And why? What did your brother do to you?"

"That's a chicken-and-egg-question," Rackett answered vaguely.

"In other words you won't tell me anything," Isobel concluded and decided to be even more bold. "Am I allowed a guess?"

"Of course."

"The two of you loved the same woman and she chose him over you."

"Something like that… only that she ended up dead. He blames me for her death and I blame him."

"I'm sorry."

Silence enveloped them and then he asked, "What do you expect from life? I mean now that most of it is over?"

"I want peace," she answered promptly. "Without bitterness or regret. My son survived the war only to die in a silly car accident a few years later. I lost my husband almost twenty years ago to an illness that can be cured today. I've had my share of tragedy, Mister Rackett, and I don't want to spend my life being angry. There's not enough time left for me to live in bitterness."

Rackett gasped. It hadn't been her intention to stun him, but she had never been more honest with him and being honest felt good.

"Now I feel ashamed," he said after a moment of silent contemplation. "I had no idea you lost a child."

"Matthew was my only son." She blinked a tear away, made a pause, and added, "I doubt taking away your brother's estate will give you any kind of satisfaction. Revenge never does."

"It's not about the estate," Rackett said. "Last night I made an offer to Larry. He can have the estate as long as he makes sure his father leaves. I want to oust him just as he ousted me forty years ago. An eye for an eye, as they say."

"And will it help? Will it bring you back the woman you loved or will it make you young again?"

"No."

"So, why do you waste your time and energy on revenge? You're rich and privileged enough to live your life in any way you please."

"Why does it sound so simple when you say it?" he wondered.

"Because it is," she answered and rose. "I'm not in a position to give you any advice, but if I were you, I would mend fences with your brother. Make peace with the world and yourself."

"If it only were that easy!"

"I haven't said it's easy," she admitted and looked at her watch. "Excuse me now, please. I have to go inside. Lady Grantham is waiting for me."

He rose too and made a small bow. "Of course…. And thank you, Mrs Crawley. I will think about your words. I promise."

He gave him a smile. "I'll see you later."

Isobel went back to the house. Her eyes went up to see if Dickie was still standing on the balcony, but he wasn't.

* * *

Dickie was pacing the hallway, hoping, praying, Isobel would appear soon and before someone else did and he had to explain why he was moping around the hallway. He had watched her talking to his brother for several minutes, before he had lost his patience. He had had to walk away from the sight of them sitting next to each other. His intellect told him his worries were unfounded and a product of bad experience. Isobel wasn't the kind of woman who walked from one man to the next. She probably didn't even like Stuart, but he knew his brother. He was charming and eloquent. Catherine had fallen for his charm and she had paid dearly for it. If he could only convince Isobel to stay away from him! She was playing with fire - especially when Stuart found out what she meant to him. If he was interested in her now, he would chase her relentlessly when he learned that he and Isobel were… What was it they were?

Dickie wished he would bring himself to propose to her again, but he feared her repeated rejection more than anything else. It was foolish, but he couldn't help it.

He heard footsteps approaching and seconds later Isobel came around the corner. A breeze of lavender and roses followed her and reached his nose. She was wearing a white linen dress and a fitting hat. To him she was the embodiment of summer - and beauty.

She stopped, visibly surprised to see him. "Dickie!"

"Hello…. I was waiting for you," he admitted nervously.

"What is it?" she asked.

His first instinct was to ask about her conversation with his brother, but he feared it would only lead to another argument between them.

"I want to talk to you," he said.

"Well… go on then."

"Not here…. Please."

She looked over his shoulder and pointed at the door behind him. "My room's over there," she said.

"I know."

Only half amused she raised her left eyebrow.

"My valet," he explained a bit coyly. "I asked him to make some discreet enquiries."

"You're even worse than your brother," she complained and he couldn't tell whether she was joking or not. She passed him and before he knew it, his hand lay on her hip. She stopped dead in her tracks and looked up to him. He registered with a touch of satisfaction that she was blushing.

"Don't," she whispered. "If someone… if he sees us…"

His suppressed anger awoke anew when he thought about Stuart and she felt the need to sneak around because of him. They were in a house full of people, some of them were complete strangers and she worried about Stuart seeing them together. "I don't care," he said hoarsely. "Perhaps I want him to know that you're…" he broke off.

"I'm what?" she hissed. There was a dangerous sparkle in her eyes. The last time he had seen it was the day before when they had argued about her plans to have tea with his brother. If she only weren't this beautiful when she was angry…

"The woman I love," he said. He couldn't be more diplomatic and expected she would scold him for his words. She had made it clear that she hated his jealousy, but she said nothing. He saw her eyes softening and relaxed. His hand was still on her hip and he desperately wanted to kiss her - and so much more.

"After dinner," she said quietly. "Come and see me after dinner." Gently, but determined she removed his hand from her body. He wished she would turn around again, but she didn't. Only the promise of tonight hang in the air when she slipped inside her bedroom.

* * *

Larry Grey stood on the balcony and smoked a cigarette. Inside Amelia was getting ready for dinner, which gave him the opportunity to have some time for himself. He didn't know why he had ended up in this house. He had a hunch that Stewart Rackett was responsible for the invitation. Perhaps he wanted to discuss further details of his plans for Cavenham with him, but why was his father here? And why on earth did Lady Walsh, the old hag, invite Lady Grantham and Mrs Crawley? And what about Natasha? Why on earth did he have to be in the same house with her? The same hotel was bad enough, but in a hotel one could avoid each other. In this house he was forced to run into her, he would have to sit at the same table… Natasha loved to taunt him and Amelia had already noticed that Natasha used every opportunity to insult him and wondered why. If he only had the chance to talk to her! If she only allowed him to meet her in private. He had the feeling there was a lot to discuss between them - the infamous end of their relationship being the center of it. He didn't exactly regret their separation. There was no way his mother had approved of a woman like Natasha to become his wife, but their affair had been… special. Wild, full of laughter, and long nights without sleep. The memories produced a smile on his face.

Natasha was nothing like Amelia. The only thing both women had in common was a sharp tongue, but Natasha was more eloquent and had more sense of humour than Amelia.

Ever since their arrival at the house Amelia's mood had changed for the better though. She was calm, almost cheerful. He wondered if her secret lover was also around. But who could he be? Stewart Rackett was too old for her and his father didn't like her. The former Russian prince was not a likely candidate either. He was too old as well and Amelia harboured a huge dislike for foreigners. Perhaps it was something or someone entirely different that had boosted her mood. Whatever it was, he wanted to find out what it was, before he told her about the offer Rackett had made the night before.

Cavenham could be his before the summer was finally over. The question was, if he wanted Amelia to be the lady of his estate.

* * *

On his way to his brother's room Stewart Rackett slowed down his usual brisk walk. He was nervous and for the first time in many years he felt a little insecure.

For the last forty years he had lived for the day he finally got his pay back.

Forty years he had mourned the loss of the woman he loved, his home, and his family. He had even mourned the loss of his big brother, even though they had never been particularly close. Still the same blood ran through their veins and there was an unexplainable bond between them. Even when they had argued in the bar two nights ago, he had exactly known what Dickie had been thinking. It was amazing how decades had passed and he still knew his brother's thoughts inside out. Dickie didn't trust him and he probably never would.

His conversation with Mrs Crawley had been most painful to him. Hearing her story he had suddenly felt as if he had wasted most of his adult life. She had lost a lot more than he had and still carried this positive energy within her. The woman amazed him and he was dangerously close to fall completely in love with her. His suspicious nature told him repeatedly to be cautious, but his hungry heart had other ideas. He hadn't had any idea how he longed for someone to share his life. Someone he could talk to, who understood him without judging him. Someone who loved him, perhaps even more than Catherine ever had. Someone he wanted to wake up next to in the morning instead of throwing them out after they had served their purpose.

He knocked at his brother's bedroom door and when Dickie opened the astonishment about his visitor's identity was written all over his face.

"I certainly didn't expect to see you," he said.

"I can imagine," Rackett agreed. "May I come in?"

Dickie hesitated, but stepped aside. Rackett entered Dickie's bedroom and waited until his valet had left, before he said, "I think we ought to talk."

"About what? Dickie asked while he toyed with his left cuff link. Rackett recognized it. They had once belonged to their father. A lifetime ago. And now Dickie was wearing them. He, the rightful owner of the title. In his youth he had been jealous of Dickie for being the heir, even though he knew his brother had never been keen to hold the title.

"Last night I talked to your son. I offered him the estate - in exchange for a favour."

"Knowing Larry he's ready to commit murder to get his hands on the house," Dickie scoffed. "If you want to surprise me, you have to come up with something more shocking."

"I wasn't that demanding," Rackett answered. "But I admit I didn't have to beat him to receive a positive answer… although I think I might be changing my mind about my proposal."

"You're talking in riddles," Dickie said.

Rackett smirked and started strolling across the room. When he reached a tallboy between two windows he saw a book that aroused his curiosity. He picked it up and smiled. It was a novel by Virginia Woolf, 'Mrs Dalloway'. With a smile on his face he remembered how Mrs Crawley, Isobel, had told him about her taste for modern literature. Dickie had always been an avid reader himself. When they were children Dickie was the one who had hidden his nose in a book while he had been outside exploring the woods.

"How well do you know Mrs Crawley?" he asked while his eyes scanned the cover of the book.

"As one knows each other when you live in the same village," Dickie answered. "Why?"

"I've spent some time with her recently," Rackett answered. "I think she's one of the most astaunding women I've ever met."

"I heard she's someone to be reckoned with."

Rackett laughed. "I don't doubt it."

"So… what are you telling me?" Dickie asked suspiciously.

"Today she gave me the unsolicited advice to bury our hatchet," he explained. "I find myself thinking she may be right."

Dickie didn't say anything. He seemed just stunned. Rackett laughed when he saw the disbelief on his brother's face. "Why don't we have a drink and a game of pool after dinner?"

"Yes, why not?" Dickie still sounded as if he couldn't believe a word of what Rackett had just said.

"Perhaps, it's time we caught up with each others' lives. There must be more to yours than this graceless son of yours."

"Of course. So… after dinner."

Rackett nodded. "After dinner."

Relieved the conversation had ended on more pleasant terms than their last one he drew a deep breath and turned to leave. So far he didn't regret his choice to meld fences with his brother. On the contrary - he felt freer than he had in decades.

******tbc******


	9. Secret Assignations

 

The dinner at the 'Maison blanche' was the most odd affair, Violet had ever witnessed. And she thought she had seen it all. The assembly around the table was a collection of various characters and the very few guests who actually liked each other were forced to pretend otherwise.

Isobel sat between Dickie and Stewart Rackett. The irony of the situation amused Violet as much as it annoyed her best friend. Her cousin was visibly unhappy with the attention Rackett was paying her, but being as enchanted by Isobel as he was, he was totally oblivious to her uneasiness and probably thought she was as besotted with him as he was with her.

Dickie Merton was just as unhappy as Isobel, but he did his best to cover it. His attention lay on Natasha DeWinter who looked pale like a ghost. She barely touched her food and had more wine than it was advisable for a lady.

Larry Grey looked as if he had bitten into a sour lemon while his wife's smile was sweeter than ever - Violet was sure she was cooking up something mischievous. Next to her sat Rackett's assistant, a blasé type with a moustache and teeth that seemed too white to be natural.

The two people who didn't seem affected by the electric atmosphere were the Prince and their hostess. Violet had to applaud her former maid for her creative performance. Lady Walsh was again the perfect image of an old widow who drank too much and had too much time and money on her hands. It was still a mystery to her how Igor had arranged all of this, but it was safe to say that his years in prison and exile had sharpened his resourcefulness.

A mawkish nostalgia overcame her when she remembered their time in Russia. From all the affairs she had had over the course of her life, her liaison was with him was the one that had stuck with her. He owned a special place in her heart and she hated how vulnerable she still was to him. A woman of her age and station should be in better control of her emotions. She watched him in the corner of her eye. He had stopped chatting with Lady Walsh and smiled at her. His eyes had this gleeful, irresistible sparkle she knew so well. She returned his gaze, smiled at him, and allowed herself to enjoy the attention he was paying her.

* * *

After dinner the guests gathered in the drawing room to enjoy their coffee or a drink. Stewart Rackett armed with a large whiskey watched Isobel as she sat down next to the Dowager Countess of Grantham. He couldn't remember a time when he had enjoyed himself as much as he did tonight. To him Isobel Crawley was charming and beautiful, right now even more so than usual. The brown silk dress she wore emphasized her slim, but female shape. It was simply, but classy, something that couldn't be said about the hostess who wore a pink dress that sparkled like a kaleidoscope.

The way Isobel - in his mind she was simply Isobel to him - avoided him and blushed every time he addressed her, told him, she was aware of his feelings for her - and seemed to return them. Perhaps she had trouble admitting it to herself. Perhaps she needed more time to realize she was falling in love too. She was more level-headed than any other woman he had known. Catherine had been the romantic type and his other lovers had always been after his money. He knew he had to restrain himself though. It was too early to confess his love or to make a proposal of marriage. He had never truly believed in love at first sight. Not even for Catherine he had fallen so quickly, but with Isobel everything was different. She was changing his perception of everything that involved life. If he had only met her sooner! His life could have been richer and more fulfilled.

He had to make sure to catch her alone sometime tonight. Ever since they had left the dining room, her companion, the Dowager Countess was occupying her. It was impossible to talk to her when the old bat was around. The Dowager was the most irritating person he had ever come across and he wondered why a lady like Isobel was spending time with her.

"So, what about this game of pool now?" Dickie asked. Rackett hadn't noticed his brother approaching him. He had completely forgotten he had asked him to play a game of pool with him. As much as he hated it, he tore his eyes away from Isobel and nodded at Dickie. "Yes, why not? Lead the way!"

* * *

Across the room Violet chuckled into her glass of brandy. "You can relax. Your suitor is kidnapping your stalker for a game of pool."

Isobel didn't dare to check if Violet was right, because she feared Stewart Rackett could interpret it as her growing interest in him.

"Well, I'm not sure I like the idea of them being in the same room without supervision," she said. She thought of Stewart's scar and Dickies' injuries after he had been brutally battered. She didn't trust either of them with one another's safety.

"Don't you think they're too old for a fist fight?" Violet asked dryly. "And weren't you the one who wanted them to smoke a peace pipe?"

"Of course, but I have a bad feeling about this!"

"It's too late for regrets," Violet reminded her. "Remember, what's done is done."

Isobel could do without the reminder and swallowed down a snappy remark with the last sip of her coffee. Perhaps she should have a brandy next - anything to calm her nerves.

* * *

Larry stepped out on the terrace and opened his cigarette case. He needed to get away from the strange congregation inside. The evening didn't exactly developed as he had imagined it. Stewart Rackett didn't pay any attention to him. At the dinner table he had only talked to Mrs Crawley and now he had vanished with his father inside the billiard room. Larry feared that Rackett's offer from the night before had lost its credibility. Had this man tricked him again? The idea was like a dagger in his heart. He hated to be played and if Rackett thought he could play him like a fiddle, he was in for a big surprise.

"Planning your next move?"

Larry startled and turned. Natasha stood behind him, pale and utterly beautiful in all her glory.

"No, just smoking a cigarette," he replied surprised and offered her his cigarette case. "Care to join me?"

She shook her head, "No, thank you."

"That's a new one. When did you give up smoking?" he asked.

"Years ago," she said. "I considered it a weakness and so I gave it up."

"Define weakness," Larry ordered bitterly.

"Being a slave when you can be free."

"How poetic." Larry smirked. "Why don't you tell me why you are really here. I have this feeling it has nothing to do with you being in love with my old man!"

Natasha laughed and leaned against the balustrade. "Well, he's a very good-looking and charming chap. He has his values - much more than you give him credit for! I might fall for him after all."

"Don't be ridiculous!"

"I'm not ridiculous," she said wistfully. "I'm very serious!"

* * *

"It's been ages since I played a game of pool," Dickie said when he reached for the cue at the wall. He was glad the two of them were finally alone. The way his brother had stared at Isobel in the drawing room had given him chills. Stuart had watched her like predators watched their prey and while Isobel certainly wasn't a victim, his blatant interest in her disturbed Dickie. Even if this conversation ended in another argument, he at least had saved Isobel from his hungry stares.

"I remember life in Yorkshire as rather dull," Stewart said. "I doubt it has changed a lot."

"It hasn't," Dickie confirmed. "Which makes me wonder why you want the estate."

Rackett lit his cigar and puffed for at least a minute before he answered. "It isn't so much about owning Cavenham. I came here to destroy it."

"And why is that?"

Rackett scoffed, "You know why."

"Actually, I don't…."

"Our father had no right to exil me… Catherine..."

Dickie raised his hand, "Can we agree to have her rest in peace. Our father didn't even know half of the story when he sent you away!"

Rackett swallowed. "I agree."

"Our father did what he thought was right," Dickie argued. "But he was never happy with his decision."

"That's not much of a comfort," Rackett scoffed and watched the smoke of his cigar racking to the ceiling.

"He hired Pinckerton detectives to find you, but you had changed your name. You had vanished from the face of the earth."

"What else could I do?" Rackett asked, his temper rising again. "I had lost everything! I wanted a new life!"

"And you did well. You're rich… successful…," Dickie's voice faded. He didn't know what else to add. It was obvious his brother wasn't happy. No man with a happy life longed for revenge after forty years.

"And lonely."

"If you say so…"

"My travel companion is a young, arrogant weasel who doesn't know how to hold his fork," Rackett said. "I think that fits the description of loneliness."

Dickie acknowledged his brother's lament with a shrug. He didn't know what to say, because instantly his thoughts travelled back to Isobel. If he only had Larry and Amelia in his life, he would probably feel lonely, but with Isobel he wasn't. Did his brother feel the same about her?

"So where does any of this leave us?" Dickie asked. Should he tackle the issue of Isobel being his former fiancee he didn't intend to give up? "Why do we have this conversation?"

"What if I told you I want to marry?"

Dickie frowned. "Mrs Crawley? You barely know her."

"When do you really know a person?" Rackett wondered. "Her home is Yorkshire, so I wonder if it would be possible to go back there back… to make a life there. Until yesterday I thought my home is America, but the more I think about it, the more I wish to go home."

"I can't follow you…."

"Mrs Crawley is a woman who deserves to be treated like a queen. Wouldn't you rather see her as the lady of the manor than your daughter-in-law?"

"Does that mean you want to take over the estate and live there?"

"With her… I wouldn't throw you out, of course. I know I made a different offer to Larry last night, but let's say I wanted to test him - it was a test he didn't pass."

Dickie finally abandoned the unused cue and helped himself for a large whiskey.

"I know this comes as a surprise, but think about it."

"I do," Dickie said and exed his drink. His brother's proposal was his idea of the ninth circle of hell. He would rather join a monastic order before he would live with his brother and Isobel as his wife under the same roof.

"Sleep on it," Rackett suggested. "After all, she hasn't said yes - at least not yet."

"Did you ask her?"

"No, but I will soon."

"I heard she isn't very fond of the way the aristocracy lives," Dickie said. "You'll need a lot of persuasiveness to convince her to live at Cavenham."

"I can be very convincing, if I want to."

"I don't doubt it."

Rackett took a look at his pocket watch. "If you'll excuse me now. My assistant wanted to talk to me. I'll see you tomorrow! Think about my suggestion!"

Rackett left the room. The smell of his cuban cigar still lingered in the air, but Dickie was sure it wasn't the smoke that caused the bitter taste in his mouth. Sometimes he wished he had more of his brother's temper. If he were more like Stuart he would smash the whiskey glass against the wall. But well-mannered as he was he confined to a less dramatic gesture and simply slammed the door when he left the room.

* * *

Isobel looked at her watch. Dickie and his brother had been gone for over twenty minutes now. Should she interrupt them under some pretense just to see if everything was all right?

"Help!"

Everyone whirled around. Larry stood in the open French doors and carried a completely lifeless Natasha DeWinter in his arms. He looked just as pale as Natasha was - and very scared.

"Someone has to call a doctor!" he said and looked helplessly from one person to the other.

"What happened?" Isobel asked and pointed at a chaise longue near the fireplace.

"She just keeled over," Larry explained as he manoeuvered Natasha on the small, red sofa. Everyone present gathered around Natasha and Isobel turned to one of the present footmen and ordered cold water and a piece of cloth.

"Perhaps she's had too much wine," Violet suggested dryly. "God knows, she was draining her appetite in it."

"She wasn't drunk!" Larry barked. "I've just talked to her and she was fine."

Isobel bent down and felt for her pulse. It was weak, but racing, and the young woman's skin felt cold. Her silk dress was soaked with cold sweat.

"Well, perhaps the contents of your conversation was putting her off," Isobel suggested coldly.

"I didn't ask you for your opinion. What we need is a doctor!"

Violet was the first to withdraw. She picked an armchair that offered her the best view across the room.

"The butler is calling for a doctor, but he lives in the village. It will take some time before he arrives," Kuragin said.

"We should take her to her room," Isobel suggested. The footman arrived with a bowl and towel.

"Can you take her?" Isobel asked Larry.

"I guess I have to!" Larry replied.

"That's perhaps the only time we agree on something," Isobel said. She watched Larry picking Natasha up and took the bowl and cloth from the footman. When she followed Larry outside she noticed that Dickie and his brother weren't the only people who had left the party early. Amelia and Rackett's peculiar assistant had left as well. Amelia wouldn't be pleased when she heard how worried her husband was about a woman he barely knew and she despised…

Isobel wasn't eager to take care of Natasha, but her blackmail was a welcome excuse to leave the room. Larry had taken Natasha to her room and Isobel had instructed the maid who took care of Natasha and her daughter to wait downstairs for the doctor.

Natasha's daughter Janou was asleep in the room next to Natasha's and Isobel resisted the temptation of stealing a glance from the child. Instead she tended to Natasha and cooled her forehead. She took off Natashas' gloves and squeezed her sweaty hand.

"Mrs DeWinter?" she asked for the at least tenth time and squeezed her hand again. She didn't receive a response. Isobel sighed and placed Natasha's arm back onto the mattress. Irritated about a tiny detail she turned Natasha's arm and swallowed when she saw the countless needle marks on her white skin. She had seen marks like these before, mostly around the time she had taken care the less priviledged.

"Golly…," she mumbled to herself and wondered if Dickie had any idea that Natasha was probably not the woman he thought she was.

* * *

Once the doctor had taken over Isobel went to her room. Even if the congregation downstairs hadn't dissolved by now, she didn't have the slightest wish to rejoin them.

"Mrs Crawley!"

Isobel groaned inwardly and turned around. Stewart Rackett approached her. He had probably been waiting for her behind the corner, which was neither amusing nor flattering. The wide smile on his face distorted his scared face and caused a shiver to run down her spine.

"Mister Rackett… I'm afraid I'm terribly tired!"

"I heard about your heroic act from my assistant. I hope Mrs DeWinter is all right."

"She's asleep. We'll know more in the morning," she said.

"I guess we will… I wanted to ask you a favour."

"Do you need a nurse as well?" She noticed her voice was dripping with sarcasm, but Rackett seemed amused by her humorous approach.

"No, I would prefer you were acting as my adviser tomorrow morning."

"Adviser? Golly… I'm not sure…"

"Please, I will pick you up here at ten. I promise you won't regret it! It's some kind of thank you gift from me. I took your advice and talked to my brother. It was… surprisingly good."

Isobel hesitated, but again her good manners won and she agreed. "I'm glad to hear it. So, ten o'clock it is."

"Thank you!" He stepped forward, took her hand and placed a kiss on it. "Good night, my dear Isobel."

"Good night, Mister Rackett."

Afraid he would try to kiss her she quickly turned on her heels and fled into her room. Inside she leaned backwards against the door and drew a deep breath. What a mad evening it had been!

"Before you start undressing I should tell you that you are not alone."

"Dickie?!" Startled she searched for the light switch, but she didn't know the room well enough and couldn't find it in the darkness.

"Did you expect anyone else?" He asked and suddenly the lamp on her nightstand went on.

"You scared me!" she scolded him. "You're lucky this estranged brother of yours didn't push in here!"

"The question is, if you want him to push in."

She gave him a scolding look. "I'm not in the mood for teasing," she warned him. "My evening was exciting enough already!"

"I heard about Natasha's collapse," he said. "How is she?"

"Not well," Isobel answered truthfully this time. "We'll see what the morning brings. The doctor is with her right now. What did you and your brother talk about? Since he's asked me to join him on some mysterious venture tomorrow morning, I take it you haven't told him about us."

"I haven't," Dickie admitted. He folded his hands on his back and cautiously crossed the room until he reached the window. She watched him with growing curiosity while he stared outside into the night, as if the answer to her question was hidden somewhere behind the invisible horizon.

"I feel like a coward for not telling him, but as so many times before, he simply caught me off guard with his plans."

"What plans?" she asked eagerly and approached him.

Dickie chuckled, but his voice lacked its usual humour. "His vision of peace is taking over my estate with you by his side. You wouldn't be Lady Merton, of course, but the extremely wealthy Mrs Rackett and I would be the tolerated old fuddy duddy who keeps the tenants happy who gets an allowance!"

"That's what he suggested?" Isobel asked with a lump in her throat. "Honestly, that's mad!"

"Is it? I wonder."

"Don't be ridiculous, Dickie! You've spent your whole life at Cavenham. He cannot just take it away from you…" her voice trailed off.

He crooked his eyebrow. "Unless…"

"Unless it's what you want," she finished her sentence with a sigh. She had often wondered how easy their life could be, if he didn't live in that awful, drafty house. Crawley House was big enough for both of them. It was more comfortable and less expensive to maintain, but she wasn't sure she wanted to tell him that. Not as long as she wasn't sure he wouldn't marry anyone else to secure his estate. She felt tempted to tell him what she had discovered about Natasha, but that felt unfair until she hadn't talked to the young woman. And she also hadn't been raised to lie to other people - not even when they deserved it.

"This is all my fault," she said, feeling utterly guilt-stricken. "I led him on. I wanted to make things better for you and see where it led us." Tenderly she ran her hand through his hair.

"It's not really your fault," he said. "I just wish you weren't here and involved in any of this!"

"It's a little too late for that," she said half-amused. "Besides, don't I have a say in this, too?"

He turned his head to look at her. The crestfallen expression on his beloved face made her regret former statement.

"I chose to be here," she explained. "I told you I can take care of myself. I'm a grown up girl, you know."

"Can't it still bother me when he looks at you, if you were a steak dinner that waits to be eaten by him?"

She laughed, "That's not a very charming image."

"Well, then tell me I'm wrong," he said bitterly. "I asked you to stay away from him and you simply ignored my wishes!"

She shrugged, stubborn and most unwilling to admit that he was right. "Well, I decided I wanted to help you. I admit I never considered my plan could backfire in such a way, but what's done is done and I'm afraid we won't undo it tonight."

"I would say not. So, what will you say when he asks you to marry him? Will you play the willing bride?" He glared at her and she felt how her cheeks coloured.

"Of course not!"

"So, what?" He had raised his voice and she hushed him.

"What else should I answer?" she returned the question. "I don't love him! I never will love him and to be honest I don't even like him very much!"

He gasped, but didn't say anything. "What is this conversation even all about?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I guess all I want is for you to tell me that I don't have to worry about Stuart or any other man."

"And why would I do that when you can't tell that you won't marry anyone else?" she asked back. "No matter how young, beautiful, and rich she may be."

He placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her closer. "I won't marry anyone else," he said in a steady. "I don't want anyone else and if that means I have to end up alone in a cottage in the fields without a guinea in my pocket, so be it!"

"I see…." Not for the first time he made her speechless with his eloquent honesty.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"No… no… I just…" She had no words left to say and so she rolled up onto her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips. "I love you," she whispered against his mouth. "I won't marry anyone else either and if I can help it no one will end up in cottage in the middle of the fields!"

She kissed him again and again and then she happily buried her face in his shoulder while he ran his hand over her back.

"Oh, my darling, to quote Scott Fitzgerald, 'I fell in love with her courage, her sincerity, and her flaming self respect. And it's these things I'd believe in, even if the whole world indulged in wild suspicions that she wasn't all she should be. I love her and it is the beginning of everything.''

She chuckled, "I thought I would never say this, but you are reading too much."

"So, tell me what to do instead," he said with his nose buried in her hair.

With a wide smile on her face she backed away, took his hand, and pulled him with her to her bed.

* * *

After the excitement of the evening had subsided and everyone had retired to their rooms, Kuragin was heading down the passage where Violet's room was located. He knew just the spot where to hide and wait until her maid had left. He had noticed the secret glances she had given him all evening and knew what they meant. They meant the same as they had in Russia a lifetime ago.

She had asked him for a secret assignation.

*****tbc*****

 


	10. Bursting into Flames

 

"A penny for your thoughts," Isobel said as she drew small patterns on Dickie's chest. He had been silent for some time now, but he wasn't asleep and neither was she. Comforting and protecting darkness enveloped them and she had lost track of time. As she lay pressed against him, his heartbeat echoing in her ear and his arms wrapped safely around her body, time had become meaningless.

There were so many things she wanted to discuss with him and yet she was uncharacteristically shy to address the issues between them. Before they had made love they had promised each other not to marry anyone else… but not each other. Right now she couldn't even say how risky it truly was to touch this delicate subject, because she didn't want to stain what they had just experienced.

What had just transpired between them had never been so powerful or absorbing that her body was still shaking and her mind spinning. Her climax had brought tears to her eyes and he had to muffle her uncontrolled sobs with soothing kisses.

"The world wavered and quivered and threatened to burst into flames."

"How dramatic…" she mused and kissed his neck.

"Virginia Woolf… your suggestion," he answered. "I found a copy of her new novel in the library downstairs."

"I'm glad to hear my literary suggestion don't fall on deaf ears."

"It never felt so right… my whole life is bursting into flames and not everything is as enjoyable as being set aflame by you."

"Flatterer!"

"It might surprise you, but I do listen to you. More than you think." His hand found its way into her hair and toyed gently with the loose strands. Getting her hair done in the morning would be a nightmare, but tonight she simply basked in his undivided attention and tenderness.

"So, will you listen to me again?" she asked softly and leaned on her elbow.

"Tonight you could ask me to commit murder and I would do it without batting an eyelid."

"I'm not quite that demanding," she answered, although she was sure her question was daring and promised to be unnerving for him.

"So, what is it?"

"I want you to tell me about Catherine," she said as careful as possible. "How did she die?"

He drew a deep breath and for a moment she feared she had destroyed the atmosphere between them. She prayed he wouldn't leave her bed and turn his back on her and he didn't, but she sensed how he struggled, how it pained him to think about the truth about his former fiancé's death.

She tenderly stroked his cheek. "Perhaps talking about her helps you to get over it," she suggested gently. "Every secret of yours is safe with me. Always."

"I'm not sure it's my secret to tell," he answered hoarsely.

"Please, since you keep comparing me to her every time you see me with your brother, I deserve to know what happened to her and why." It was the awful, almost brutal truth that he kept comparing her to Catherine, even if it didn't happen consciously or if he did it against his better judgement.

"I know you are not her. I know she's dead, but I know why she had to die and that is why I want you as far away from him as possible."

"That's not good enough for me though," she answered and made a pause to give him the opportunity to make up his mind. "Did he kill her?" she asked. "Or was it an accident?"

He sighed and gave in. The words came out slowly and one by one, but finally he spoke them and perhaps it wasn't a catharsis, but at least he allowed himself to share his grief with someone. "Catherine killed herself. One afternoon when she was sure she was on her own, she cut her veins open and bled to death - quietly and secretly. A maid found her and fainted when she saw all the blood."

"And why did she do it?" Isobel asked breathless since he had just confirmed her worst suspicion.

"After we became engaged to be married my parents gave a big houseparty at Cavenham. On the first evening Stuart gave her too much to drink, not too much, but enough to make her willing and submissive, and seduced her. I knew he had taken a shine to her, but I had no idea how far he would actually go to possess her. He had always been reckless and foolish, but what he did to Catherine was by far the worst of all his deeds. My father always forgave him everything, the gambling, the prostitutes, his excessive drinking… he never put a stop to any of it, because Stuart was the spare and could allow himself to be careless. So he became irresponsible and thought he could do as he pleased. Nothing in his behaviour today tells me he has changed for the better."

"I doubt it has," she agreed.

"In her suicide note Catherine wrote about the night she had spent with Stuart and that she expecting. She wrote that she loved me and how deeply ashamed she was of herself - so ashamed that she couldn't bear the thought of marrying me when she carried his child inside her. Killing herself was the only option she saw for herself and her family."

Isobel was stunned and felt a lump in her throat. Moved to tears she said, "What a senseless, unnecessary death."

"You can say that again."

"Would you have married her?" she asked, hoping she knew him well enough to know he would have.

"Of course. I would have done everything for her, if she had only told me the truth! Even if that meant acknowledging my brother's child as mine."

"But why does he blame you for her death when it was his behaviour that led to her into the abyss?"

"Because he doesn't know she was pregnant," he answered. "He thinks Catherine killed herself because I've neglected her after I found out about her liaison with him. I'm the only one who knows that she was pregnant. Neither her parents nor anyone else knew the whole truth. I saw no point in telling anyone. I didn't want to stain her memory."

"But how can you accept that he blames you for her death?"

He shrugged. "He was gone after I made my father choose between us. I didn't see the point in blaming anyone but me. I should have looked after her at the house party, but I went for a game of cards with some of my friends. My absence made her vulnerable to him."

"I'm sure it wasn't your fault - not if he persuaded her with the intention of making her drunk." She shuddered by the idea how scared and lonely Catherine must have felt when she realized she had been pregnant after a night she probably never wanted to happen.

She snuggled up against him and kissed his chest.

"He has no whatsoever power over me," she said after a few minutes of silence between them. "I won't let him spike my wine and he won't enter this room." She raised her head from his chest and looked at his face. "I swear it."

"I will speak with him tomorrow. I'll tell him he can have the estate, if he wants it. I don't care if he burns it down or sells it to another American."

She opened her mouth to protest, but he gently placed his finger on her lips and continued, "None of this is worth the heartache he brings with him wherever he goes. I'm sorry it took me so long to see that."

She kissed him. "Why don't we talk to him together?"

"I'm not sure that's a conversation a lady should be present at," he said.

"I don't want you to do this alone."

He kissed her head. "I know, but that's between my little brother and me."

The determination in his voice made her silent and so she decided to let the matter rest - at least for the rest of the night.

* * *

Larry Grey stood on the balcony and smoked a cigarette. Inside Amelia was already sound asleep, but he couldn't get the events after dinner out of his head. His argument with Natasha and her sudden blackout had shocked him to the core. Natasha was usually a strong, most healthy woman. Collapsing the way she had, wasn't in her nature. She used to laugh about old ladies with smelling salt and fans. If Mrs Crawley hadn't been all over like a hawk, he could have investigated the matter more closely. The way things presented themselves now, he had to wait until the next day to get to the bottom of Natasha's health issues. He had the creeping sense that he had misjudged the whole situation from the very beginning and that worried him.

The other, although less troubling mystery in his life, was the identity of his wife's lover. He had spent a long day narrowing down his list of suspects and finally after dinner, when everyone had gathered in the drawing for coffee and drinks, it had dawned him. Stewart Rackett's useless appearing and boring assistant, whatever his name was, wore the same awful after shave he had smelled on Amelia the night when she came in late. Under normal circumstances he would feel ridiculed and insulted, but somehow Amelia's choice of a lover didn't seem as important as it had been days ago. Surely she had picked him because she expected some advantage for herself of such an affair. Since she had to fear to lose Cavenham Park she probably set her eyes on someone who was close enough to Rackett to allow her to find out what was going on with the estate.

He didn't know what he wanted to do with his newly discovered knowledge at the present moment, but he was sure it wouldn't take too long before it came in handy.

* * *

As promised Stewart Rackett picked Isobel up at ten o'clock. Since she had no idea what to expect she had dressed for an outing, but to her surprise their trip ended in the basement of the house. Lady Walsh welcomed Rackett and Isobel in a room she used as study and the only other guest present was a man she presented as Monsieur Bertrand.

"Monsieur Bertrand is here in his capacity as a jeweller and art dealer," she introduced them. "Mister Rackett, I'm surprised you asked Mrs Crawley to be present," she said and eyed Isobel blatantly suspicious.

Isobel who hadn't expected such hostility in Lady Walsh simply returned the glare and shrugged. The dress Violet's former maid had chosen for today was as atrocious as her other outfits and Isobel wondered, if the actress wasn't overdoing her act. The red silk dress with its feathers and its sequin was an insult to the eyes, not to mention the heavy make up around her eyes and lips.

"Just pretend I'm not here," Isobel said and withdrew to a chaise longue near the window.

"Oh no, my dear Mrs Crawley!" Rackett rushed after her, took her hand and pulled back right into the middle of the room. "It's vital, you see this!"

"If you say so…."

"I trust my assistant has brought them downstairs," Rackett said to Lady Walsh. She nodded and rang with the small bell standing on her desk. A side door opened and Rackett's assistant whose name Isobel had forgotten came in. He carried a wooden case that was secured with no less than three different locks and placed it carefully on the desk.

"You haven't let them out of your sight, Stockton, have you?" Rackett barked at his assistant.

"Of course not, Sir."

"Very good." Rackett reached inside the pocket of his jackett and produced a set of keys. "Open it," he ordered Stockton who did as told. Isobel saw how the young man's hands were shaking while he unlocked the case. What she saw once the mysterious box was open, left her breathless.

"Golly!" she said. "Are these…?"

"May I introduce you to 'The Heart of Dusk' and 'The Heart of Dawn'," Rackett said, a wide smile deforming his scarred face. The sight of the necklaces made Isobel speechless. She had never seen such exquisite jewellery and she instantly doubted she would see something like this again.

"Exquisite," Lady Walsh agreed.

"Monsieur Bernard is here to pass his expert opinion on the quality of the stones and to estimate their value."

"You want to sell them?" Isobel asked. "Why?"

"I have plans and these plans don't involve additional baggage. I came in possession of the stones after the great war. It was a rather fortunate incident that led me to them and I've waited for the opportunity to use them for something much more substantial than having them under lock and key and I believe the time has come. Rumour has it they once belonged to the Russian Imperial Family. I even asked the lost Russian fellow in our company, but he denied any knowledge of the existence of the stones and I should think he knows a lot about the jewellery the Romanovs have lost after their demise - especially about pieces like these."

Isobel swallowed while many pieces of the puzzle were falling into place. She was certain Rackett was right about the Prince's knowledge of the family jewels and she was sure Kuragin had been lying to Rackett about them. It all seemed to simple now. This was as a scheme to regain the jewellery his family had once lost.

"They stones are breathtaking," Isobel said while her mind was running wild with possible ways Kuragin's plan could work out - and what could go wrong.

Suddenly she felt Rackett's hand on her arm. He shoved her gently with him and whispered, "They are not as breathtaking as you! I want you to know that my selling them serves only your happiness."

"I beg your pardon." She was irritated and kept staring at his hand around her elbow. Goosebumps formed on the back of her neck and she wished she could shake him off.

"You asked me to make amends with my brother. I will. And with the money I receive from the selling of the stones we..."

"Please, Mister Rackett…." It was Lady Walsh who saved her. Rackett looked at their hostess, annoyed with being interrupted, but Isobel was grateful and freed her arm from his grip. She remembered what Dickie had told her about his conversation with his brother and as mad as it sounded, Rackett really seemed to believe he had been making amends with his brother. To him, the idea of replacing Dickie as head of the family was a given fact. She wondered if it was boldness or complete delusion on Rackett's part to think that Dickie was on board with his plans.

"I'm sure Mister Bernard is waiting for you," Isobel said. "It would be unkind to keep him waiting."

"You're right. You see, I need someone like you to teach me manners."

The trio went back to Monsieur Bernard and Rackett's assistant. Isobel watched the jeweller inspecting the necklaces, but her mind travelled off to Dickie and their last night together. She started daydreaming about a future for them that didn't include his brother or any of his sons or his godforsaken estate. She felt selfish for feelings, but she didn't wish to share with anyone who didn't want him as happy as she did.

After half an hour later Monsieur Bernard left the room and Rackett and Lady Walsh agreed for a meeting to discuss the jewels after dinner.

Isobel wanted to use the opportunity to escape, but Rackett noticed her leaving and came after her. "Please, Mrs Crawley, just one more thing."

"Yes?" she asked, realizing how hard it was for her to keep up her smile.

"I was thinking… the day after tomorrow when we all go back to the hotel, I would love to spend more time with you."

"Ohh… well, I'm not sure how long Lady Grantham and I are going to stay…"

"Oh, please, do me honour of extending your stay. Be it for a few days… a week perhaps. You can be my guest! I will arrange everything!"

Alarmed by the whole idea she shook her head. "That's too kind, but I… have a lot of obligations at home."

"Well, it seems I have to do more to convince you. Perhaps we could have dinner on Monday. There's so much we have to talk about."

"Is there?" she asked perplexed.

"Oh, there is." He took her hand, made a bow, and placed a kiss on her knuckles. As always when he touched her, a shiver ran down her spine and she felt the wish to run.

"Dinner on monday it is then," she said, hoping her agreement would be enough to get rid off him for a few hours.

"I have to go now," she said and pulled her hand back. "I promised Mrs DeWinter to pay her a visit today." She doubted Natasha wanted to see her, but it was the best excuse she could think of right now.

He made a small bow. "Of course. I hate to share your attention with her, but I hope she has recovered from her little collapse. I'll see you later."

* * *

Igor Kuragin stood on the balcony of Violet's room and enjoyed a cup of tea. The late summer sun was blinding him and so he had his eyes closed while he thought about the status quo of his life. So far everything was working in its favour. Every detail of his carefully arranged plan had played out the way he had contrived it - some had even worked better than he had anticipated.

He thought of Violet and the night they had spent together and he couldn't be happier. Perhaps she would never marry him - not even after last night - but he was sure she was back in life for good. The rest were details and he would figure them out once this vacation was over. When his calculation was correct, and there was no indication it wasn't, their stay in France was coming to an end. By the end of this weekend, many people would be a great deal happier and richer, while others faced what they had coming.

"What are you thinking off?" Violet asked behind him.

He smiled and turned around. "I was thinking about the beauty of life," he answered.

She chuckled, "I can't think why."

"I think, you know why." He went inside and kissed her on the cheek. "You know how to make a man happy."

"Would you consider it an insult if I told you, I found it incredibly easy to do so?"

He chuckled amused. "I see it as a sign of… a mutual understanding of each other."

"The question is where will we go from here," she said. "I'm afraid this summer won't last forever."

"No, it won't, but it doesn't have to." He took a look at his pocket watch. "If my assumption is correct, we will be free to go wherever we like by now."

"How do you mean?" she asked astonished.

"I'm saying that 'The Heart of Dusk' and 'The Heart of Dawn' have been replaced by very good imitations by now and by the time Mister Rackett realizes he's about to sell fake diamonds, we will be gone."

"What?"

"Did you think I would try to break into his room to steal the diamonds with my bare hands?" he asked amused. "I'm an old man and I hate inconveniences."

"But what if he finds out about this sooner than you think?" she asked worried.

"He won't. Mister Rackett is too busy chasing Mrs Crawley's skirts to worry about theft."

"Well, I doubt Mrs Crawley will allow him to chase her skirts any longer. She's highly uncomfortable with things as they are and she doesn't even know about the diamonds!"

"She only has to persevere until tomorrow evening," he tried to assure her. "When we're back at the hotel, she can leave under some false pretense. Lord Merton doesn't know it yet, but his problems will be a thing of the past quite soon, too."

"How so?" Violet wanted to know. "Isobel told me Mister Rackett wants the estate out of revenge. I don't see how the theft of the diamonds can disrupt his plans for Cavenham."

"The loss of the diamonds cannot," Kuragin agreed. "But giving him a choice can."

"Blackmall?" she asked, her right eyebrow crooked.

Igor shrugged, "I've told you, Rackett got financially involved with the wrong people. People who won't be happy when they learn that his plan to get money out of his brother's estate fails. I can make sure these people learn of his mistake or I can help him out of the mess."

"In other words you want to pay him with the money you make with his diamonds."

"They are my diamonds," he corrected her uncharacteristically stern. "My brother, may he rot in hell, recklessly lost them."

"I still think it's mad," Violet said uneasy. "I doubt Mister Rackett is a man who is easily intimidated."

"I'm sure he will understand my reasoning once I informed him about the circumstances."

"You make it sound like some innocent transaction rather than a criminal offence."

"It's all a matter of perspective, my love," he leaned in and kissed her forehead.

"I hope you are right," she said with a sad sigh. "I should hate to see you fail."

* * *

After luncheon Isobel decided to give the library Dickie had told her about a visit. She had run out of reading material and she had the feeling she wouldn't meet Stewart Rackett in there. He wasn't exactly an avid reader and so she figured the library would be a good place to hide from him - at least until tea when Lady Walsh expected every guest in the drawing room. Dickie had promised her he would talk to his brother as soon as circumstances allowed it, but until then, her hiding from Rackett was like running the gauntlet. The man became unbearable in his attempts to be alone with her and she feared she had to fight him off, in case his passes became more aggressive than they already were.

The library was bigger than she had expected it. The sun-flooded room was high and the walls completely covered with filled shelves. Dust was dancing in the sunlight when she entered. It didn't surprise her that Dickie loved the room. Whoever had stocked the collection had various interests in politics, the arts, and as well French, Russian, and English literature. She discovered many first editions from the 19th century as well as modern authors such as F. Scott Fitzgerald and Virginia Woolf.

"I had a feeling you were here." Lost in her enthusiasm about the range of literature, she hadn't noticed that she wasn't alone any more. She turned on her heels and saw Dickie crossing the room. She smiled at him, relieved and happy it was him and not his brother.

"I couldn't resist after everything you told me," she said. "What's this?" She pointed at the book tucked under his armpit.

"I wanted to give this to you," he said and handed her the small volume. "I told you about it."

"Mrs Dalloway?" she asked surprised and opened the book to read the first line.

"I'm sure you will like it," he said "Although…" he smirked coyly, which aroused her curiosity. "Yes?"

"I may be a fool to recommend it to you. It might give you the wrong ideas."

She sensed he was trying to tease her and she decided to play along. If anything she had missed how easy things had been between them before Larry's behaviour towards her had made everything so complicated. "What kind of ideas?"

He closed the distance between them, leaned forward, and whispered into her ear, "While reading I had the strangest feeling that Mrs Dalloway liked her female friend much more than any of her male lovers."

Isobel chuckled delighted and snatched the book. "Now you've got my full attention!" she joked.

"Don't you dare!" He placed his hands on her hips and pulled her closer.

"Are you mad?!" she asked exasperated when he placed a tender kiss on her neck. "If anyone comes in here!"

"And I thought you were the adventurous one of us!"

"Perhaps I am, but that doesn't mean I'm reckless!" Against her wish she had to chuckle when his mouth continued its playful attack on her neck. Memories of the night before appeared on her mind and her body reacted accordingly. Heat spread within her veins and desire bundled within her very core when she thought about the way he had made love to her, how he had claimed her as his… how she enjoyed it when he collapsed in her arms after his climax had overwhelmed him.

Her whole body was covered by reminders of their lovemaking. Her breasts, her stomach, the inside of her thighs… He had left so many small marks all over her that it had been a challenge to find a dress that covered the delicate lovebites on her collarbone and her chest.

"Let's leave this place and run away with me," he suggested hoarsely and shoved her gently against the bookshelves.

"I hate to remind you that we're not twenty anymore," she mumbled between kisses. "I doubt they are waiting for us in Gretna Green."

"I don't need to be twenty when you're by my side," he said and rested his forehead against hers. "Promise me to marry me as soon as we get home."

"Oh Dickie…." She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry and so she did both.

"Don't refuse me again," he added earnestly. "I couldn't bear it."

She sobbed, kissed him, and embraced him as if her life depended on it. "I won't refuse you," she answered. "I will marry you come hell or high water!"

* * *

Stewart Rackett strolled down the staircase. He was bored and annoyed with the lack of entertainment. He had hoped to spend the afternoon with Mrs Crawley, but she had escaped him after luncheon. She wasn't in her room and he hadn't seen her in the gardens either. He had contemplated asking Lady Grantham for her whereabouts, but he feared the old hag would only lie to him anyway. He felt that she disliked him and the feeling was mutual.

The next place he wanted to check out was the big library in the basement. Mrs Crawley was an avid reader, so there was a chance she had sought refuge there. Perhaps that was something he had to put a stop to once they were married. As his wife and lady of Cavenham Park she had too many obligations to hide between the pages of dusty books.

He opened the door and then he heard her voice. He smiled. So his inkling had been right, but her talking meant she wasn't alone. He looked around when he saw her, his enthusiasm and smile faded. She was leaning backwards against a bookshelf in the back of the room and his brother stood right in front of her. They stood close, so very close. It was a sight that made him numb. Irritated he realized that Isobel's head was playfully tilted aside, her chuckle sounded flirtatious and mischievous.

Until now he had never seen them exchanging one single word or look and now she stood so close to him as if they had known each other for a lifetime… They were completely oblivious to him and Rackett didn't dare to breathe, because he feared they might notice him before he had figured out what their meeting in this book cave meant.

He just watched them and a lump formed in his throat as his awareness of their relationship grew. There was an element of intimacy visible between them that enraged him. He had always taken Isobel for the reserved kind of English woman who was hard to impress and hard to get close to. She had certainly suggested all of this with her behaviour, but she was quite the opposite of this now. She was literally basking in Dickie's attention. The sparkle in her eyes spoke volumes about her emotions. His brother's hand came to rest on her hip and she leaned in closer and touched his face with her hand. Her thumb caressed his cheek and travelled to his mouth. She chuckled, delighted about Dickie's reaction when her thumb gently entered his mouth and mimicked a certain motion. Instinctively Rackett stepped backwards. As quickly and noiseless as possible he fled the room and made his way down the hallway.

He had been played. He had been played all along. Isobel Crawley, if that really was her name, was his brother's… lover? Perhaps his wife? Someone he paid for certain services? Whoever she was, she had tried to fool him and he wasn't someone who liked to be fooled. He was someone who made other's pay at the very attempt to cheat on him and he wouldn't make an exception for her - on the contrary.

****tbc****


	11. The Heart of Dusk

 

"So, he actually found the courage to propose again?!" Violet asked Isobel, rather bewildered by the idea that Dickie Merton had found it in himself to ask Isobel again to become his wife - despite the present circumstances.

"He did," Isobel confirmed and wondered if it was actually wise to tell Violet about it. It seemed a little premature, but she was too happy with the way things were proceeding for her and Dickie to keep the secret to herself. For the first time in months she truly believed that they had a future together and she would burst, if she didn't share it with the woman she considered her best friend.

"And you said yes…?"

"I did."

Violet looked for her cane and found it leaning against her dressing table. It was almost time for dinner and Isobel checked her appearance in Violet's mirror.

"Since when are you so vain?" Violet asked with a chuckle.

"I'm not vain," Isobel replied dignified while she adjusted her long necklace. "By the way, how's the Prince? I haven't seen him all day."

"He's busy," Violet answered vaguely. "But he made a good suggestion when I last saw him."

"Which is?"

"We should go back to England as quickly as possible. Perhaps on Tuesday. That way we wouldn't have to bother unpacking after our leaving here."

"Why's that?" Isobel asked curiously. She had been thinking about leaving France as quickly as possible as well, but her wish was grounded on her wish to escape Stewart Rackett. She could only guess why Violet wanted to go back to England.

"He thinks, it's best to leave France before your other suitor becomes unbearable."

"How kind of him!" Isobel couldn't hide the irony in her voice. "Especially when one considers the reason why he's here."

"I don't know what you mean."

Isobel sighed. She was sure Violet knew about the diamonds and Rackett's wish to sell them to Lady Walsh and she was angry with Violet for not confiding in her about it. As Isobel saw it Prince Kuragin was using all of them for his personal advantage and Violet went along with it.

"One who deceives will always find those who allow themselves to be deceived," Isobel quoted. The longer she thought about Igor Kuragin and his involvement in all of this, the more she thought of Machiavelli and his schemes.

"I'm still not sure the moral high ground is the right place for you," Violet quipped.

"All I'm saying is that you should be careful," Isobel said. "I hate to think he should use you."

"Don't worry about that," Violet said sternly. "I'm in perfect control of my emotions."

Isobel found the statement highly dubious, but she didn't want to argue and so she shrugged. "I hope so, because if not I fear not only for your peace of mind but also for the rest of us."

* * *

Over the dinner table Dickie and Isobel locked eyes in utter irritation. She sought comfort from the warmth in his eyes and smiled at him, before she returned her attention back to her plate. For the strangest reason the conversation around the dinner table had turned to the most morbid subject - war. Stewart Rackett who had been drinking a little too much had started it with a remark about the profits he made from the war. Violet was unusually quiet. Under normal circumstances she would have reminded everyone that talking about money was highly inappropriate, but Isobel guessed that she kept her tongue for Igor Kuragin's sake who also preferred not to make a comment that could expose himself as someone who had been closely related to the murdered Czar. Larry, usually the one who stirred the fire, tried to save the situation with an anecdote about a traitor who made a fool out of himself while he wanted to save his own skin only to get shut off by a harsh remark from Natasha DeWinter.

"I hate traitors. Nothing good has ever come from someone who sold out the people who held him dear."

"I guess that depends on the people," Amelia quipped back. "Isn't it true that we always wonder who is worth our time and trouble and who isn't?"

"Spoken like a true role model," Isobel mumbled and drowned everything else she wanted to add with a big gulp of wine.

* * *

Larry Grey wondered if people and men in particular knew how pathetic they looked when they were discovered with their pants around their ankles while they were having intercourse with a woman against a brick wall. He doubted it, because otherwise they would make sure they weren't observed by others.

Torn between disgust and amusement he threw his cigarette over the banister and turned away. After he had watched Amelia and the plain Mister Stockton leaving the drawing room, he had decided to sneak after them. His reward was the doubtful experience of catching his wife committing adultery with a lover who was an insult to every walking man on earth.

Sick of France and everything involved he decided to go home as soon as possible . preferably without his wife. He would come to an agreement with Rackett the next day or not at all. If not, the loss of Cavenham was his father's problem - not his.

* * *

After the others had retreated into the drawing room Stewart Rackett sneaked away to take care of something he had been thinking about since he had overseen Isobel and his brother in the library. He heard loud caterwauling from the grammophon downstairs and rolled his eyes in annoyance. Was that jazz or whatever they called it? He had never cared for music nor was he fond of dancing, but tonight the noise helped to cover up his disappearance and so he was grateful for the distraction the noise offered. While the others were busy dancing and drinking he had time to find out what Isobel was hiding from him. He had seen the way she had looked at Dickie at the dinner table. This short moment that no one else had probably noticed had been very telling - much more than the intimate moment he had observed in the library. The element of trust and understanding between them was more revealing than a kiss.

He sneaked down the long floor, but naturally the hallway was completely deserted at this time of day. The maids and valets were downstairs, having their own dinner with the servants who didn't waiter on them and so he had time to search for more clues about Isobel Crawley. He needed to find out what and who she was, before he decided on what to do with her...

* * *

Dickie didn't know why Natasha was so eager to talk to him, but the evening had been so irritating that nothing truly astonished him anymore. Lady Walsh had meant well when she had suggested to put out the grammophon, but no one seemed to enjoy the music and no one cared to dance. When Natasha had asked him for a private conversation only the hostess, the Prince, Lady Grantham and Mrs Crawley were left behind.

Natasha closed the door to the billiard room and gave him a smile. "Finally, we are alone," she said and approached him.

"What is you want to talk to me about?" he asked curiously.

"Well…." she lowered her head and blushed. "I thought that's obvious to you by now."

He cleared his throat. He already hated this situation and he silently cursed himself for allowing it to go this far. He raised his hand as if he wanted to shield himself from her. "I'm not sure I want to hear it," he said. "I think it's best this conversation never happens."

"Don't say that!" She closed the distance between them and ran her hands over the collar of his jacket. "I think we have a lot in common."

"I'm not even sure about that," he said. He made a step backwards, but connected with the billiard table. "Mrs DeWinter…"

"Call me, Natasha, please… You must know by now how I feel about you!" She rolled up to her tiptoes and kissed him passionately. Dumbfounded by her unexpected pass he did nothing for a few seconds. Being kissed by this young, beautiful woman felt like a surreal dream and he felt she didn't mean it. He tasted the desperation and fear from her lips. Determined Dickie wrapped his hands around her wrists and pushed as gently as possible her away from him. "This is not going to happen," he said. There hadn't been many moments in his life when he had to turn down a woman. Rejection was always a delicate matter and he had been raised to treat every woman with the utmost respect and care. He remembered the dismay Isobel's rejection of him had caused in him and he didn't wish that on anyone else, though this situation was different. Natasha didn't love him and he wasn't interested in her either.

"You don't understand," she started, tears dwelling in her eyes.

"I think I do, but my answer is no. I'm sorry." Natasha shook her head and kissed him once more. Surprised by her determination, he tightened his grip around her arms and forced her backwards.

"Don't you see that…"

"Please, Natasha. I'm sorry, but we both know that we are not in love and never will be."

"You only say that because you don't want to hurt Mrs Crawley! Don't you see that we belong…" Tears were streaming down her face. Dickie thought he had never seen anyone so desperate and his guilt mixed up with compassion. As many men he didn't know what to do with a crying woman.

"No, we don't. You know, we don't."

All of the sudden, she stopped fighting him. Her shoulders dropped and she bent her head. He released her hands and she sank against him. He didn't know what else to do and so he let her cry against his chest and clumsily patted her shoulder.

"Perhaps it's time you told me what's really going on," he said once the shaking of her shoulders had subsided a little.

"That's not going to help," she said.

"Try it. The truth always helps."

"Whoever said that, hasn't lived my life," Natasha said as she moved away from him.

"Show me a life that's easy," he replied. "Or rewarding."

"Well, mine isn't, but I hoped you could help me leaving something worthwhile."

He handed her his handkerchief. "I'm afraid I'm not what you see in me," he said placidly. "I'm an old man who is about to lose everything he ever had. I'm not as rich as you might think."

"I know everything about your trouble with Mister Rackett." Surprised, he narrowed his eyebrows while she continued. "I know he's your brother and I know he's here to sell his jewellery. He has to pay the debts he made with American Mafia. In other words he's robbing Peter to pay Paul."

"Why are you so well informed?"

"Igor told me everything about it."

"Prince Kuragin?"

"The one and only." Her voice was dripping with sarcasm, something that didn't go unnoticed by Dickie.

"Since we've reached a certain point in our acquaintance, I suggest, you tell me everything I need to know. What is going on here?"

Natasha smirked, "Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat?"

"In my experience that depends on the cat," Dickie returned.

She chuckled, choked on, which was followed by a heavy and long cough. After the convulsion had subsided she cleared her throat and said, "Touché! But trust me, what you'll hear from me is more than you've bargained for!"

* * *

"Where is Mrs Crawley going?" Igor asked when he handed Violet a glass of sherry.

Violet watched on when her friend left the room and shrugged. "She said she wanted an early night. I think she just wants to escape before Mister Rackett returns."

Igor sat down next to Violet and chuckled, "He's really not easy to shake off."

"He's been an utter nuisance since he first approached her," Violet confirmed.

"That's the trouble with men who cannot take 'no' for an answer," Igor joked.

"You must know what you're talking about," Violet returned and lowered her voice. "She also lost her faith in your good intentions."

"I'm afraid you've lost me."

"She thinks you're out to deceive me," Violet explained and a crooked eyebrow.

"And now you're wondering, if I do," Igor summed up her thoughts. "Nothing could be further from the truth," he answered. "All I want is for everyone to get what they deserve. Nothing more, nothing less."

"You know that justice is a concept created by mankind that barely applies for real life."

"Is that a question or a statement?" Kuragin asked.

"It's a fact, Igor," Violet said with unhidden sadness in her voice. "There's no such thing as justice."

* * *

When Isobel opened her bedroom door she instantly noticed the smell of burned paper. Alarmed she stormed inside but stopped in her tracks when she saw Stewart Rackett standing in front of her fireplace. He didn't move when he heard her arrival and just leaned over the twitching flames with his hands against the mantelpiece. Apparently lost in his thoughts he stared down into the fire. Sparks flew and Isobel wondered what exactly it was he was burning. The heat radiating from the fire - and him - worried her deeply.

"What are you doing here?" she asked and she sounded more angry than surprised. She was so tired of the man that she decided to give up her intentions to be nice to him.

"I was waiting for you," Rackett replied without moving.

"I can see that. May I ask why?"

"You owe me," he answered coldly.

"I can't think what."

She placed her purse on a board near the bed, trying to think of a way to get rid off Rackett as quickly as possible. She switched on the small lamp and put her purse away. The last thing she wanted was for Dickie to come in to find his brother in her bedroom.

"I think you owe me an explanation of your choice of literature." Finally Rackett turned around. The expression he wore on his face was scaring her. If she hadn't known his face so well by now, she would have made a big step backwards. In the light the flames spread across the room his scar looked particularly creepy and there was no doubt left in her that the game, she had played for the last couple of days had come to an end.

He showed her the empty bookbinding of the novel Dickie had given to her this afternoon in the library.

"Where are the pages?" she asked, eyeing the fire in the background.

"I burned them," Rackett answered. "It's the kind of trash I don't allow in my life. I read my brother's dedication for you on the front page. I found it rather telling. I know he considers himself an intellectual, while I consider him a fool. It's no secret that I've always been the pragmatist who grabs the bull by the horns and he starts reading to them."

"When you think burning books is about pragmatism, you haven't understood the meaning of the word."

"I disagree, Mrs Crawley... that is if that's your real name."

"It is my real name."

He nodded and started moving across the room. Isobel watched him with growing uneasiness. He seemed to calm for someone with his temper and his demeanour worried her. What should she do if he became violent?

He stopped near the window and turned to her. "You know Catherine loved books as well. I always tried to make her see that she was wasting her time with them... I take it, you know about Catherine or at least Dickie's version of her."

She shrugged. "He told me all about her."

"You're not so different from her… maybe less shy… perhaps more intelligent…even sneaky. You led me on for quite some time, which is not easy. I was a fool for trusting you, but I admit you enchanted me. Catherine was more of a pure soul… very innocent and unable to harm anyone. She was incapable of lies and deceit."

Isobel shrugged, "I don't doubt her good character."

Rackett remained motionless. His eyes still penetrated her. She seriously considered fleeing the room, but she probably wouldn't get very far, because he looked like tiger watching its prey. "Did he tell you Catherine killed herself because of him? Because he didn't want her after he realized she was… easy to distract once he wasn't frisking around her skirts?"

"That's not quite the version I was told… And which seemed more plausible."

"Enlighten me, please. How did he twist the facts?"

Should she tell him what Dickie had told her about Catherine's unwanted pregnancy that led to her suicide? The last thing she wanted was adding oil to the fire, but what choice had she left? Violet's words about offence being the best defence and swallowed.

"I'm waiting, Mrs Crawley. I think I deserve to know the truth."

"Catherine did kill herself, but not because your brother gave her a brush off. She killed herself because she felt unworthy of him after she discovered her pregnancy."

It was done and she waited for the vulcan to explode, but Rackett still didn't move. He was simply stunned and just when Isobel wondered if he had understood the meaning of her words, he shook his head. "That's a lie," he hissed.

"It's not. She left him a note. She explained it all."

Then everything happened very quickly. With three long steps he had crossed the room. He pushed her against the wall and then his right hand closed around her throat. His tempo caught her off guard and before she knew what happened to her, she panicked. She struggled for air, but his grip was merciless. She choked, tried to kick him, but missed him. He pressed his body against hers. Nauseated by his nearness she tried to free her head from his grasp, but she was only hurting herself.

"Listen to this…." he whispered into her ear. "You can wail all you like and I want you to know whose fault it is!"

* * *

On his way to his bedroom Kuragin passed Isobel's door and Violet's statement of Isobel not trusting him came to his mind. He had to admit he hadn't considered the idea that Isobel could not trust him. She felt used by him and he couldn't deny that he had done so. He had meant no harm to her though and he felt it was time to let her know that. He stopped, went back to Isobel's door and without further ado, he knocked. Instead of a call, he heard noises from the inside. Something behind the door crushed and rumpled. For a second he wondered if he was standing at the right door and when the noise became louder, he grew worried. He knocked again, louder this time, and then he barged in, hoping he wasn't interrupting something private.

He quickly realized he wasn't an intruder, but a saviour. On the floor next to the bed, Stewart Rackett lay on his back, his evening attire soaked in blood, water, and remains from a flower bouquet. Isobel was kneeling next to him, her index and middle finger lay on his neck, feeling his pulse. Rackett's temple was bleeding and pieces of what had once been a Chinese vase lay scattered around the room. He checked the empty hallway to make sure no one was watching him and quickly closed the door.

Isobel looked up when she heard Kuragin approaching her. She looked completely dishevelled and he saw her hands were trembling. The expression on her face was the one of someone being scared out of her wits. He kneeled down next to her.

"What happened?" he asked worried.

"He went basallic," she answered. "He tried to kill me. I hit him with the first thing I could lay my hands on."

"Is he dead?"

"No, and I doubt he will be unconscious for long."

"I'll take him to his room!" Igor decided. "Clean up the mess and don't tell anyone."

"We have to call a doctor!" she said. "He's bleeding."

"Does he deserve one?" Kuragin returned. "He won't die from a scratch at the head!"

She hesitated, unsure what to do, but they didn't have time to lose. "I'll take care of him," he assured her and without waiting for her consent or answer, he heaved up Rackett. Isobel came to her feet and offered her help.

"He's too heavy!" she exclaimed, but Kuragin just repeated his former order. "Clean the room and don't tell anyone. Not Violet and not Lord Merton. I'll take care of the rest."

While he carried Rackett down the hallway Kuragin wondered for the first time since his arrival, if he had really considered every angle of his plan. He had known from the beginning that Rackett had a mean and cruel strike, but he had always believed he was someone who hired useless lowlives to do his dirty work. Was this the beginning of the end for his scheme? Whatever happened next, he had to plan his next move very careful…

* * *

After his conversation with Natasha had ended, Dickie went to his room to have some moments for himself. He poured himself a large whiskey, went onto the balcony and drew a deep breath. He missed the sound of waves crashing against the shore. It used to calm him when he couldn't find sleep in the lonely nights in the hotel.

"Hard night?"

Dickie almost choked on his drink. He hadn't noticed Larry who had been waiting for him in the dark.

"What are you doing here? Where is Amelia?" Dickie asked after he had digested his shock.

"You don't want to know," Larry said dryly, refusing to answer why he was waiting on his father's balcony instead of his own room.

Dickie had never found his son's demeanour more tedious. Whatever the state of his son's marriage was, it wasn't his problem. But what Natasha had told him was his problem now and the responsibility to make Larry see the truth lay on him. Tonight at the dinner table Natasha had said, she hated traitors. Was he any better? Hadn't he betrayed his son when he had allowed him to become what he was now? Shouldn't he have interfered more when he had witnessed how his son became a nasty young man? In the best case he was a failure as a father and in the worst the man who had destroyed his family and their heritage.

"I just had a conversation with Natasha DeWinter," Dickie said. "Why didn't you tell me you know her?"

Larry shrugged while he lit himself a new cigarette, "Does it matter? You never cared for my female acquaintances. In fact you never cared for anything."

"It does matter."

"Why? Are you getting hot under the collar by the idea that I had her first?"

Dickie sighed, "If you weren't so utterly pathetic in your attempt to shock me, I would say, you're a shadow of what your mother wanted you to be, but that's not the point here."

Larry raised his eyebrows. Whether he was amused or offended, Dickie couldn't say.

"Natasha told me, you are the father of her daughter."

Larry almost choked on his puff. "She doesn't have a child."

"She does. She keeps her well hidden, but the girl is here and this house and it's time you met her."

"She fools you, Father!"

"I doubt it." Dickie finished his drink and before he turned away from Larry he said. "And you for once will face your responsibilities. You got away with everything you've done so far, but that's over now."

"What makes you think it is?"

"Because the estate is already lost and you can think about how long your wife will stay by your side when you have nothing to offer her. You'll lose your heritage and your family and this little girl is perhaps the only human being left on this earth for you. I should think that this should matter even to you."

* * *

"How can you tell the stones apart?" Amelia asked almost breathless. She closed her hand around her heart shaped diamond and felt the rough edges and the coldness of it. She couldn't remember when she had ever been more thrilled in her whole life. This stone was her ticket to wealth and freedom.

Behind her Stockton laughed, "They say only the Maharadsha could and so Fabergé to mark the necklaces." He showed Amelia the little notch at the clasp of the silver chain. "This one is the 'Heart of Dusk'".

"And you're sure, Rackett hasn't noticed the exchange?" Amelia asked worried.

"Nope… he's not thinking with his head right now and before Lady Walsh realized we've sold her window glass we will be gone." Stockton placed the necklace around her neck and Amelia admired herself in the mirror.

"And where do we go?" she asked.

"I know a man in South Africa who's interested in buying both stones. He's a collector. He's the highest bidder to far!"

"I've always wanted to go to South Africa…" Amelia said dreamily.

"So South Africa it is…" Stockton kissed her neck and unzipped her dress.

* * *

Isobel stood in her bathroom and inspected her injuries in the mirror. The bruises around her neck started to show and it would be almost impossible to hide them in the harsh light of the upcoming day. What was worse was a bruise on her left cheek. She would need a lot of makeup to cover it - makeup she didn't have, because she never used it. Perhaps she could ask Natasha DeWinter for help, but how to do so without telling her the truth? And how was she supposed to face Stewart Rackett again? The idea of seeing him again was unbearable. Prince Kuragin had ordered her not to tell anyone about her encounter with Rackett but there was no way she could hide her bruises from Dickie.

Unable to look at her own reflection any longer she leaned on the sink and drew a deep breath. Her hands were still shaking and unable to support her body she withdrew her hands and ran them through her hair. Pins fell onto the floor and she hissed in pain when she stepped on one.

"What happened to you?!"

She screamed, whirled around, and grabbed for the first thing she could get a hold on. With a candlestick raised in her hand she started sobbing when she realized the intruder was not Stewart Rackett but Dickie. His eyes ran up and down, trying to make sense of her dishevelled appearance.

"I'm sorry… the door wasn't locked and you didn't answer, when I knocked… What happened to you?" he repeated his question, calmer this time. Slowly he entered the bathroom and took the candlestick out of her hand.

"You shouldn't be here…" Was all she said, but she didn't mean it. Kuragin's words echoed in her ear, brought tears to her eyes and she started sobbing.

"Shhh…" He tried to soothe her when she leaned against her head against his chest. "What is going on here?"

"There was a fight," she said when she had regained her composure. She leaned back, dried her tears with her hands and swallowed hard. "With your brother. He knows I tried to fool him. He didn't take it very well."

"And he became violent?" Dickie asked sternly. Isobel nodded, "It was my fault it escalated. I told him about Catherine and he went…berserk. Prince Kuragin found us and brought him back to his room. He's injured and…" She didn't have the time to finish her explanation, because Dickie left the room without losing another word.

"No, stay here!" She went after him, but his pace was fast and determined. "Dickie, please!" She reached him at the door, tried to get hold of his arm, but she shook her off.

"This is between my brother and me and you stay here!" he ordered.

"But this will only lead to more…"

"You stay here," he repeated harshly. "For once do as I say!"

Stunned by his determination and coldness she made a step backwards and nodded. Wishing he would just stay with her she wrapped her arms around her body.

"Lock the door," he said a bit gentler. He went back to her and kissed her forehead. "I'll be back."

* * *

Rackett's room was located on the second floor. Dickie had expected the hallway to be completely deserted since it was already past midnight, but he found quite the opposite when he reached the top of the staircase. In front of his brother's room a small crowd, consisting of servants and their hostess, Lady Walsh had gathered. Everyone was talking and no one was listening. Dickie had never seen Lady Walsh looking so normal… she was wrapped in a thick, white bathrobe and her grey, curly hair was suddenly brownish and braited. There was no makeup on her face and he realized for the first time that she couldn't be much older than he was.

"What is going on here?" he asked when he reached the small group.

"I'm afraid, there's been a terrible tragedy," Lady Walsh answered. "The Prince is inside."

"I don't understand… this is Mister Rackett's room."

"I'm afraid Mister Rackett is dead," Lady Walsh explained in a trembling voice. "And then there is…." she broke off and started sobbing into a handkerchief that she pressed over her mouth.

Tall as he was Dickie tried to look over peoples' heads, but he couldn't see what was going on behind the open door.

"Let me go inside," he said and pushed his way through the small crowd. Just as Lady Walsh had said Igor Kuragin was in the room. He had his back turned to the door and Dickie closed the door behind him, shutting out the others. Silence fell over them like a cloak. Dickie stepped next to Kuragin who was staring at the lifeless body on the bed. It was Natasha DeWinter. Pale and peaceful as if she was sleeping with her hands folded over her chest as if she were praying she looked like the embodiment of peace. Rackett lay on the floor behind the bed. The shock was still written all over his distorted face and the knife was still stuck in his chest. His shirt was smeared with blood, as was the carpet underneath him.

"Oh lord," Dickie said and turned away. In the battlefields of South Africa he had seen a lot of blood, but this was personal. His brother was dead, but there was no grief rising in him, no surprise about his sudden demise, just disgust with what Stuart Grey had become and how he had found his master.

"I doubt he was here tonight," Kuragin said motionless and started crying like a child.

*******tbc*******


	12. The Heart of Dawn

 

It was almost five o'clock in the morning when Capitaine de Police Georges Martin and his young assistant Bernard Dupont exited La Maison Blanche. It was a cold morning and Martin felt chilly. Fall was upon them, that much was sure. They had spent the better part of her night with two corpses and a couple of mysterious, equally upset and in consequence annoying guests and potential suspects.

"So, what do we make of this?" the older man asked as he sank on the steps of the big staircase. He grunted heavily when he pulled out his cigarette case and waited until Dupont gave him fire. He inhaled deeply and watched the smoke fading in the morning air.

"I think she did it," Dupont answered.

"And with 'she' you mean…"

"The dead one. The one who killed herself." He crossed himself and added, "May God have mercy on her soul."

Martin grunted again. He wasn't a big believer and thought any kind of religion was a waste of time.

"So, she stabbed the old man and then she killed herself with an overdose of heroine…"

"The doctor said she was using drugs… she had a lot of marks on her arms."

"I know…" Martin lay his head back and stared into the dawning day. "But why should she kill him? What is the connection between them?"

Dupont shrugged, "Perhaps he was… obtrusive, made an unwelcome pass at her…."

"You said there was a letter for someone?"

Dupont nodded and consulted his small, black notebook. Martin grinned when he saw the eager expression on his young colleague's face. "Yes, for a Madame Crawley. We couldn't talk to her yet. She's ill."

"Ill?" Martin asked surprised.

"Ill. According to the Doctor she suffers from an upset stomach. She went to bed early and spent most her night in the bathroom," Dupont confirmed. "But she should be fit to be questioned in the morning."

"Let's hope so. I really want this to be over and done with. There's nothing worse than rich people killing each other out of boredom or worse for more money!"

"Really?" Dupont seemed astonished. "Murder is boring? But you are an investigator!"

"Yes, boring. Tell me, Dupont, do you read books?"

The young man was surprised by the question and then he blushed. A bit uneasy he said, "Sometimes… when I have time."

"There's this novel by an English lady. I've forgotten her name, but she more or less writes 'the simplest explanation is always the most likely'."

"Is it a crime story?"

"It is, but I think it applies for almost every situation in life," Martin answered.

"What's the title? Perhaps I could give it a try… one day."

Le capitain de police stood up, groaning and cursing under his breath, and answered, "The title's 'The Mysterious Affair at Styles'."

* * *

Dickie watched Isobel in her sleep. He was sitting in an armchair near the window. The day was dawning behind him but he had no eyes for the beauty of the young day. His eyes were fixed on Isobel who seemed to be caught in a restless dream. He had been sitting here for the last couple of hours. After the rollercoaster of emotions earlier, he felt empty. His mind was blank and his body beyond weary. He felt no grief for his brother nor felt he sorry for his violent death. The way Stuart had treated people all his life, he had it coming. What truly wondered him was the big 'why'. Why did Natasha kill Rackett? What was the connection between them?

The police were still on the premises and he was sure they were asking themselves the same questions. The one person who knew more was Igor Kuragin, but Natasha's death had shaken him to the core. The former prince had tried to explain it all to him, but it hadn't been easy to follow his hectically made explanations. From what Dickie had understood was that the old man was blaming himself for everything. The senseless and unexpected loss of life affected him deeply. His guilt weighed heavily, as did the awareness that he hadn't considered every aspect of his plan. He still wasn't aware of all the details but he didn't want to push Kuragin for more information when he was barely able to speak.

Dickie looked at the thick envelope in his hands. It was addressed to Isobel. Kuragin had found the letter in Natasha's room and so far the police didn't know the contents. Dickie smirked. From all people in the world Natasha had chosen Isobel to be the recipient for her suicide note. He could grow a hundred years old and he would never understand women.

Isobel stirred under her blanket and opened her eyes. It took her several seconds to recognize her surroundings and that Dickie was sitting at her bed.

"What time is it?" she asked and tried to push herself up. She groaned when the pain kicked in and leaned back into her pillow, her eyes closed again.

"It's still early," he answered. "Does it hurt?"

"If you mean with 'it' my entire body, then yes."

He rose and sat down on the edge of her bed. Gently he took her hand, "The police will want to talk to you rather sooner than later. Are you sure you feel up to it?"

"I doubt they will accept if I say 'no'," she answered.

"Perhaps not, but we could ask the doctor to excuse you for a little while longer."

Isobel shook her head, "No. I want it to be over," she said. "And then I want to go home."

He wholeheartedly agreed with her statement though he wasn't sure if he still had a home to come back to. He had no idea what would become of the estate now that his brother was dead.

"Me too."

He looked at the thick envelope he had placed on the duvet. "We found this in Natasha's room. It's for you."

"From Natasha?" Isobel asked. Driven by curiosity, she pushed herself up and leaned against the head of the bed. Undecided she picked it up and turned the letter in her hands.

"Won't you open it?" he asked.

"I know I should, but I'm a bit… scared of the contents."

"Perhaps I should leave you to it," he suggested.

"No!" She grabbed for his hand. "Please, stay. I don't want to be alone."

Astonished because she had never uttered such words before, he remained where he was and hoped they weren't in for the new bad tidings.

* * *

"Natasha is...was my niece," Igor explained, his voice raw with emotion. Violet had never seen him like this. After the war when he had shown up at Downton she had thought she had seen him at his lowest, but the sight of Igor Kuragin after the revolution was nothing compared to the sight of him after Natasha's suicide. He looked like a tortured soul, stripped off his purpose. He suddenly had become an old man who had lost his energy.

Violet watched him standing near her window where the day began and wanted to help him, but didn't know how. How did one heal a broken being? "Your niece?" she repeated and then the truth dawned on her. "She was Alexey's daughter?"

Alexey had been Igor's brother. A reckless man who had vanished during the Russian revolution. He had taken the family jewels with him and later he had been killed in America where the jewels had ended up in Stewart Rackett's possession - possibly after he had killed him.

"Her mother was a French artist. She was married and Natasha was raised in Paris. She received the best education and thanks to our influence and fortune she had the best prospects. Then the war came and changed everything. Her mother died of the Spanish flu and the family lost their money. Alexey vanished. He never cared much for Natasha in the first place, but I made sure he paid the bills. It was the least he could do. When Irina and I came to Paris I looked for her and found her in a brothel. She was desperate, sick, and almost dead."

Violet flinched and went to him. Gently she ran her hand over his back, hoping the gesture would soothe him.

"You saved her," Violet concluded gently.

"And what for?" he asked back. Again tears ran down his cheek and his shoulder shook violently. His fist hit the window frame. "I brought her here!"

"There was no way you could know she was going to kill Mister Rackett," Violet argued.

"I should have taken better care of her. She was only twenty-seven years old!"

"She was young, but not a child. I'm sure she hid her intentions well from you, because she knew you would try to stop her." For the first time since she had met her, Violet understood the young woman that given Isobel such a hard time. Inwardly she applauded Natasha for her courage and her stamina. She had the feeling Natasha might have saved all of them with her brave act.

"And what will happen to her child?" Igor asked. "She's three years old."

"Well, didn't you tell me she has a father?" Violet asked. "Larry Grey may not be your first choice, but at least he has the means to take care of her."

Igor scoffed, "Do you know his wife has a lover who thinks he is in possession of the stones? I wouldn't recommend neither Mister Grey nor his wife to raise a child!"

"There are many ways to take care of a child and as long as Dickie Merton and Isobel are alive the girl will always have someone to turn to."

"How can it be enough?" he wondered.

Violet sighed, leaned against him, and said, "I'm afraid it's the best and only choice the girl has."

* * *

_Dear Mrs Crawley,_

_When this letter reaches you, I'll be dead. The second page of this letter is a confession of mine. It will hopefully end any police investigation that may be going on by now. I hope none of my doings will cause too much inconvenience, but it couldn't be helped. I'm afraid my own, bad health and the circumstances around Mister Rackett's plans for Cavenham didn't allow any delay. I had to ensure my daughter's inheritance and I had to secure with Mister Rackett's blood. It's my sin and I will accept whatever punishment awaits me._

_The other important aspects of Janou's life - her upbringing, her education, and the noblesse of the heart are in your hands now. I trust that Lord Merton and you will take Janou under your wings and protect her from Larry's awful wife. I think we both will agree that Larry will be overwhelmed by his new role as a father and needs all the help he can get. I'm sure he will accept your help - reluctantly perhaps, but he will._

_Be well, Mrs Crawley,_

_Yours Natasha DeWinter_

Isobel folded the page and drew a deep breath. She had read the Natasha's note for the fourth or fifth time and still had a hard time to comprehend it. When she had arrived in France blood and thunder had been the last thing on her mind and now she was recovering from an attempt to murder her and she had inherited the child of her late rival. Weary she closed her eyes and enjoyed the warmth of the late summer sun. Violet was always scolding her when she exposed her face to the sun, but she needed to feel the warmth. It made her feel alive. It told her she wasn't caught in a bad dream. She heard hectic steps on the gravelled path and opened her eyes. It was Dickie.

"How are you feeling?" he asked as he approached her. She noticed he was a bit out of breath and deeply worried. "I've been looking for you all over the house!"

"I needed some fresh air." She patted the free space next to her and smiled up to him. "Why don't you sit down?"

He did as asked and for a few minutes neither of them spoke.

"The police have gone," he informed her. "It looks as if they have accepted Natasha's confession and want to close the matter as quickly as possible."

Isobel nodded. It sounded too good to be true. The police had questioned her in the morning. The Capitaine and his young assistant didn't seem every eager to find any other culprit than the obvious late woman who had confessed to the crime.

"Does that mean we are free to leave?" she asked. She longed to go home. Downton and its small straightforwardness seemed like paradise compared to this ivory coloured snake pit with its mantraps. It was a place for shady people indeed.

"I think so. We can go home tomorrow, if you want to." He turned his head and looked at her. She sensed he wanted to add something, but struggled how to phrase his thoughts.

"What is it?" she asked.

He shrugged. "Yesterday I've asked you to marry me and a few hours later my brother tried to kill you…." His voice trailed off and Isobel felt how am ice cold fist closed around her heart. Her chest tightened and she held her breath, hoping, praying, he wasn't about to withdraw his proposal. If anything else, she wanted to become his wife - for better or for worse.

"The point is," he continued. "I might not have a home to go back to. I can't offer you anything, but a title. I may have no estate, no house to rely on."

"I have a house," she said quickly. "It's not much in comparison to Cavenham, but it's a comfortable home that offers more than enough space for the two of us." She placed her hand on his arm. "I don't care for estates or titles," she assured him with a slight squeeze. "I never have."

"And what about Stuart? He was my brother and he was a cruel and violent creature."

"As far as I am concerned he was a cruel and violent creature who had nothing in common with you."

He sighed, whether out of relief or heavy-heartedly, she couldn't say. "Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully. "I should hate to trap you in a marriage that leaves you uncomfortable and penniless."

"I could never be uncomfortable by your side," she said. "Never." Touched by her words he raised her hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss on it.

"Why don't we marry here?" she suggested. "Let's get married before we get home. That way they have all the more reason to gossip about us!" she smiled broadly at him. For a second she feared he would ask her if she was mad, but once he had realized she meant every word, he started laughing. "You are perfectly marvellous, Isobel Crawley and I don't deserve you!"

* * *

When Dickie returned to his room he was in high spirits. He had no idea if he could manage to arrange a wedding in France, but he was about to find out if it was possible. The first thing was to arrange their leave. Isobel wanted to go back to the hotel as quickly as possible and he agreed wholeheartedly with her. The sooner they left this place the better.

He was about to ring for his valet, when someone knocked at his door. Surprised he looked up and called his visitor in. It was Igor Kuragin. He looked worn out and tired.

"We need to talk," he said in his rich, Russian accent.

"All right… what is it?"

"I think the violent death of your brother has serious repercussions for the two of us."

"I'm not sure I understand you…"

"There's something we have to discuss," Kuragin said. "Your inheritance."

"My heritance?" Dickie repeated dumbfounded.

"As far as I'm aware, and I did my homework fairly well before I arrived here, your brother has no other living relatives but you and he hasn't made a will, which makes you his sole heir."

Dickie gasped. He hadn't really given all of this a thought, but the longer he thought about it, the more he realized it was true.

"I think there's another aspect to all of this that you might not be aware of," Kuragin continued.

Dickie almost didn't dare to ask what Kuragin was referring to."Which is…?"

"I think you better sit down. It's a long story and it begins in Russia."

* * *

Violet was alone when she entered the salon downstairs. She was looking for Isobel and detected her through the big window. Isobel was alone, strolling through the park. Violet sighed. She couldn't stand the afternoon heat and decided not to join her. She was so tired of France. The heat and the people annoyed her. She longed for the peace Downton Abbey and its small village provided her. The one and only aspect of her stay in France that made it hard to leave was that Igor Kuragin was here. Against her better judgement she had fallen for him again - or be precise she had allowed herself to do so. Should she ask him to go back to England with her? After Natasha and Irina's death there were no relatives left in France for him. He was alone - more or less. There was a big Russian community in Paris, but were these people a substitute for a family? There hadn't been many occasions in her life when she hadn't known what to do, but this was one of those rare moments when she felt helpless. It wasn't appropriate for a woman of her status and her age to ask a man to run away with her. Would he ask her? She had refused him last year and despite the one night they had spent together very recently, she wasn't sure of their future or if they had a future at all.

"Lady Grantham?" Violet turned. To her surprise and dismay their hostess Lady Walsh was standing in the doorway. Today she looked less like an exotic bird and more like a woman who loved to dress en vogue. She had abandoned the silly looking wig and had her brown hair neatly coiffed.

"Was is it?" Violet asked.

"I'm glad I found you here. I wanted to talk to you."

"Until now we made a very good job of avoiding each other. I should think we ought to keep it that way."

Lady Walsh blushed. "I know you are not comfortable around me and why should you?"

"Exactly."

Violet headed towards the door.

"Don't turn your back on him. Not now that you actually have a true choice." Lady Walsh said when Violet passed her. Violet stopped dead in her tracks and glared at her former servant.

"I beg your pardon."

"You know it wouldn't have worked out for the best back then. Do you remember the night before you wanted to run away with him? You told me, 'It's all just a dream'. You were right. It was a dream and you wouldn't have stood a chance, but you do now. Times have changed and so have you."

Violet shook with anger. The only person who dared to address her like this was Isobel and she barely accepted it from her. The impertinence of the woman who had once been in her service and had betrayed her was unmatched. If she didn't leave now, she would attack this woman with her cane. She moved forward, but before she was out of the door, Lady Walsh added one more thing that got Violet thinking.

"He did all of this for you, Lady Grantham. He wants to be worthy of you."

* * *

Since the body of Stewart Rackett had been discovered Amelia Grey was in utter panic. She didn't know what was going on. The sense of having lost control over her life was domineering her day. Larry had somehow vanished from the face of the earth and her father-in-law wasn't talking to her. Stockton was busy with dealing Rackett's affairs and had no time to talk to her either. The lack of information was driving her mad and she decided to look for Stockton. She knew he had the diamonds, so what kept them from leaving the country as soon as possible? The police had left and they all were free to go. Since Rackett was dead, no one was looking for the diamonds. It was their chance to run!

She entered Stockton's room without knocking.

"Listen, Dean, we have to…" She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw Dean Stockton wasn't alone. He was sitting in an armchair and Igor Kuragin was standing next to him. He held a hammer in his hand.

"Ah, Mrs Grey, how nice of you to join us," Kuragin said with a wide smile. "I was just explaining to your friend that he has made a grave mistake."

Unsure with a weak knees Amelia closed the door and went to them. The hammer in Igor's hand worried her and she saw that Stockton was sweating and shaking. Was the old man threatening him?

"What are you talking about?" she asked and looked at Stockton, trying to read his face. The expression on his face was blank though.

"I was about to ask Mister Stockton to open this case here when you came in," Kuragin continued. Only now Amelia noticed the jewellery case on the table. Her eyes widened with fear. How did the Russian know about the diamonds?

"Will you open it now, Mister Stockton?" Kuragin repeated his order while he toyed with the hammer in his hand.

Now Amelia was starting to sweat. She watched her lover opening the case. His hands were shaking.

"The Heart of Dawn." Kuragin took the necklace in question out of the case and looked admiringly at the stone. The light of the afternoon sun was reflected in it and Amelia had to shield her eyes.

"I have to admit I've rarely seen such exquisite forgery."

Amelia's jaw dropped. "What do you mean? Forgery?"

Kuragin's answer was a hit with the hammer. He placed the necklace on the table and smashed the Heart of Dawn into a thousand little pieces. "They are made of glass," he informed the stunned couple. "I had the necklaces exchanged before Mister Stockton could do so - and before you ask: they are in a safe place."

"That's theft!" Amelia exclaimed.

"Are you accusing me?" Kuragin asked with a crooked eyebrow. "I can assure you the diamonds are in the possession of their rightful owner."

"Rackett is dead!" Amelia argued angrily. God knew who the new owner was. Stockton was just sitting in his chair. He was white as a sheet and couldn't utter a word.

"Yes, and as things are he has a brother who inherits everything," Kuragin said.

"What brother?" Amelia barked.

Kuragin looked at Stockton who was now breathing heavily. "This is a nightmare," Stiockton whispered.

"You haven't told her?" Kuragin asked Stockton who shook his head in response.

"Told me what?" Amelia asked sharply.

"She has no idea?" Kuragin chuckled. Then he burst into a loud and genuine laughter.

Amelia who was about to lose her composure rushed to Stockton and shook him by the shoulder while Kuragin, still laughing, went to the window. While he wiped a lonely tear from his cheek, he looked outside.

"If you want to see the new owner of the jewellery, you have to come over here," he told Amelia who didn't get a word out of Stockton.

Amelia approached the window and followed Kuargin's gaze. Down in the park she saw her father-in-law, Mrs Crawley, and Larry talking to each other. A girl and her nanny were nearby, playing with a red ball. Without understanding Amelia looked up to Kuragin and shrugged.

"I thought you were a sharp thinker, but it seems you can barely see what's going on in front of your nose," he said. "Stewart Rackett had a brother a brother who happens to be your father-in-law."

Kuragin stepped back and allowed the message to sink in, before he started to laugh again.

"If I were you I would try to make amends with Larry before he decides to dump you."

******tbc******


	13. Boats against the Current

 

**Chapter 13 - Boats against the Current**

'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.' Kuragin groaned and closed the volume. He had never liked modern American literature and he couldn't pretend Fitzgerald's novel changed anything about it. He had heard he and many other authors spent a lot of time at the Cote d'Azur in the summer and did what artists and authors usually did when they were bored. A shadow crossed his face. The latest chapter of his own story was certainly worth a story of its own. With a sense of defeat he put the book back on its place in the shelf and went back to his room.

His bags were already packed and like the other guests he was only waiting for a car to take him back to the hotel. He had no idea how his life would continue. Once again he found himself to be trapped in circumstances that didn't allow him to look forward to anything other than bleakness. The death of Natasha weighed heavily on his heart. Mrs Crawley's explanation of Natasha's terminal illness couldn't change that. His niece had killed herself and with her next to last act she had executed the job that would have been his. He should have killed Rackett like Rackett had killed his brother. No matter how useless Alexey had been, he had been his flesh and blood and he deserved to be avenged.

Igor checked his pocket watch. It was time to go downstairs. He straightened his sleeves and tie and cleared his throat. Feeling again like an actor who was preparing to enter the stage, he mentally prepared himself to face the other guests. His agreement with Violet was to meet for dinner at the hotel. If he only knew if any of her dreams, plans involved him! Every time he talked to her she was opaque as always. Kind and tender one second and crisp and cunning the next. He was scared to ask her if she wanted to share her life with him. In the past he had always told himself that it was all just a question of money and status. But was it? Natasha's death, her act of murder, put things in a different perspective. He was responsible for the tragedy and in his opinion that didn't make him worthy of Violet. He may be rich again, but despite his regain of the diamonds he looked like a fool. At the end of this trip he wanted to be the hero. The knight in shining armor and what was he now? An old man who had lost his only living relative.

Someone knocked at his door. Surprised he called them in. It was a servant with a letter on a silver plate.

"Pour vous, Monsieur."

"Merci."

The servant left and wondering what to expect now, Kuragin unfolded the letter. It was from Violet and the nature of her message made his heart skip a beat.

* * *

Dickie stood at the opened window in isobel's hotel room and smelled the fading scent of the summer night. When they had arrived in France the air had been filled with soft traces of lavender and oranges. Tonight everything outside appeared much colder. Fall was approaching and with it the ever present reminder that nothing used to stay the same no matter how much one was trying to turn the boat around.

"Are you planning on spending the night in front of the window?"

Her voice sounded drowsy. He turned, a smile broadening on his face. She blinked up to him, her hand resting on his empty pillow.

"I couldn't sleep." He returned to the bed and slipped under the sheet.

"You're thinking too much," she said when she snuggled up against him.

"I know," he said. Her warm and welcoming body spooned against his and he placed a kiss on her head. "But there's a lot to think about."

"Is this about Natasha?" she asked and he heard the trace of bitterness in her voice. He toyed with her left ring finger. He noticed that she had taken off her wedding ring. It warmed his heart to think that the gesture meant she was ready to commit herself fully to him and their relationship.

"Not really… as much as I regret her death. No, it's more about her daughter and Larry… the future. Our future in particular."

"What do you mean?" she asked and raised her head from his chest.

"I've told you about the Prince's and his offer."

"Yes, but…"

"Well, what if nothing comes of it?"

"With two of the most valuable diamonds the world has ever seen?" she asked. "Darling, don't you worry too much about it all?"

"What if the prince's tale about the diamonds is a hoax end up with nothing and you have to sustain me?"

She chuckled, "I would utterly enjoy myself."

"I don't doubt it," he tried to sound amused, but he wasn't. "But it's not what I want."

"And what is it you want?" she asked.

"First of all I want you to be my wife and second I want you to be proud of me. And being broke doesn't really fits my description of being worthy of a woman like you."

"I've already told you, I don't care if you're poor as a church mouse or rich like a king."

"But I do."

Silence fell between them. He sensed her disappointment, but she kept quiet and placed her head back on his chest.

"Why don't you talk to your solicitor?" she suggested after a while. "Whatever happens with your brother's inheritance, I'm sure he can tell you what to do."

"I will, but wouldn't it be ironic justice, if my brother had the last laugh?"

He wasn't a pessimistic person by nature, but he didn't trust his luck. Thank God for Isobel and faith in the future!

* * *

"Are you serious about this?" Igor stared at Violet. He held the letter she had written to him in his shaking hands. This woman never ceased to amaze him. She was unpredictable, an enigma, the eight wonder of the world.

"What makes you think I wasn't?" she asked in return. She was sitting at her table and closed her pen who to give him her full attention.

"I don't know…." He felt how he blushed and felt foolish. Even after almost fifty years of acquaintance she managed to reduce him to the inner size of a school boy. He looked at the ticket in his hand.

"A passage to England," he stated. "Is that some kind of a proposal?"

"It's a suggestion," she specified. With a sigh and the help of her cane, she rose from her chair.

"Go on," he prompted, not sure, he was really understanding the meaning of it all.

"I suggest you return to England with the rest of us," she explained.

"To do what?"

She rolled her eyes, annoyed by his bluntness, his demand to say it out loud.

"I want you to share your life with me."

"As a husband?"

"Would you rather be the hall boy?" She didn't even blink, the mischief glittered in her eyes, making him speechless for a heartbeat.

"Why?" He knew he was smiling brightly, fully aware of her disdain for showing off one's emotions.

"Why not?"

They could play this back and forth until the night was over, but he had learnt very recently that time was more precious than they all thought. With two long, quick steps he stood right in front of her. He cupped her face with the palms of his hand and kissed her. He kissed her for what felt like an eternity and all the time she kissed him back.

* * *

Larry Grey looked at the empty compartments in the wardrobe where Amelia's clothes used to hang and crooked his eyebrow. She was gone. At least she had spared them both the undignified conversation that preceded a separation. He was on his own. His marriage was over and he had a daughter he had to take care of.

He thought about his father who had told him the day before that he finally wanted to go through with his wish to marry Isobel Crawley. The idea of having her being a part of the family, of replacing his mother still made his skin crawl, but he had come to realize that it also become an advantage to have her in the house. He still had his job at the bank in London and during his absence she could take care of the child. Janou, his child. He still had a hard time believing it, but even he had to admit that the girl looked just like him. It wouldn't be easy to explain her existence to the county though. He would have to come up with something to dish to all the busybodies who loved gossip more than anything else. Perhaps his father's wedding to Mrs Crawley was just the thing to distract them from Janou.

* * *

Amelia stood at the platform at Gare de Nice and waited for Dean Stockton. They had agreed to meet here to enter the evening train to Paris. Escape was the only thing left to do. Amelia knew Larry wouldn't take her back. She was broke and felt like an idiot. She and Stockton had been fooled by an old man. His laughter still rang in her ears, mocked her. She had been so stupid to trust Stockton! But now he was all she had left. Of course, she could ask her parents for help, but she doubted they understood her predicament not to mention the reason for it.

Again she looked at the big station clock. Stockton was late. The creeping feeling that he wouldn't keep his promise. The train was set to leave in less than ten minutes. Rising tears clouded her vision. Stockton was standing her up. She had lost everything.

Amelia allowed herself to cry for a few minutes. Then she blew her nose, dried her tears, and straightened her shoulders. Determined she picked up her small bag and asked the conductor where she could find her compartment. She was on her way to Paris. It was time to move on.

* * *

Isobel, Violet, Dickie, and Igor were sitting in Violet's hotel suite. In the middle of the small coffee table lay one open jewellery case. The Heart of Dusk and the Heart of Dawn, each embedded in one thick silver necklace looked breathtakingly beautiful in their stoic, cold nature.

"So, where does all of this leave us?" Violet asked. "Don't the jewels belong to the heritage of the horrible Mister Rackett?"

"In theory yes," Igor confirmed. "But since Mister Rackett stole them from my brother who stole them from our family's vault when he flew Russia, the answer must be no. It doesn't really matter what your brother has written in his will."

"But won't the people who execute his will will notice that they are missing?" Dickie asked.

"I doubt they know about the existence of the stones," Igor answered. "Treasures like these cannot be found on any list."

"And what is it you suggest?" Isobel asked. She leaned forward and locked eyes with Kuragin. It was a challenge and he took it with his usual nonchalance and gave her a smile, but turned to Dickie to address him, "My suggestion is quite simple: You take one necklace, I take the other."

Isobel gasped, but Dickie placed her hand over hers, silencing her efficiently - a result that caused Violet to crook her eyebrow in amused astonishment.

"Why?" Dickie asked. "It's yours. I have no claim on any of it."

"I think it's only fair. My grandniece will be raised in your house and she's my last living relative. That way I can give her at least something of my family's heritage. You," he pointed at Isobel and Dickie, "You can make sure she receives what's due to her."

Isobel and Dickie exchanged a glance. She shrugged and he nodded. "All right," Dickie said. "I'll accept your offer on one condition."

"Which is?"

"You'll play a part in her life… her upbringing. I think we all agree that this cannot be left to my son alone."

Now it was on Violet and Igor to look at each other. "As it happens, Violet has agreed to marry me and since she won't leave Downton, I'll have to move there. Will that ease your misgivings?"

Dickie chuckled amused. "I think it does."

"Good!" Kuragin clapped his hands and rose. "That calls for a bottle of champagne."

"I'm afraid we have to postpone this celebration to another time!" Isobel said and rose to her feet.

"Right. Perhaps we can meet later…. For dinner."

Perplexed Isobel and Kuragin stared at the couple who suddenly seemed eager to leave.

"What are you hiding?" Violet asked, suspicion clouding her voice.

"Nothing," Isobel said, but avoided Violets' eyes. "We can talk later!"

"Do you know what this was all about?" Kuragin asked, once Isobel and Dickie had left.

"No," Violet admitted, "But they are up to something! I can feel it in my bones."

* * *

Grateful they had found a marriage registrar who spoke English, Isobel and Dickie got married one hour later. It wasn't the kind of wedding Dickie had hoped for when he had proposed to Isobel for the first time, but once he slipped the ring on her finger, it felt ever so right. There was no loud organ, no community present, no priest. Just two stranger who acted as witnesses. It was more intimate than he had expected.

"I pronounce you to husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

The registrar smiled and nodded, obviously glad to have finished without making a fool of himself. Isobel and Dickie didn't notice him when they finally sealed their bond with a long and tender kiss.

"I love you," she said once they parted.

He smiled at her, "I love you too. More than words can say."

"How could you not tell us?" Almost violently Violet put down her glass. A bit of champagne spilled over the edge and ended up on the table.

"We wanted to surprise you!" Isobel defended their 'elopement'.

"My congratulations!" Kuragin said and raised his glass for a toast.

"All this excitement!" Violet exclaimed. "It's time we all went home and lived a perfectly normal life again."

"I agree with the part about going home," Isobel said. "But I doubt anything will be normal about our lives anytime soon!"

"I agree," Dickie said. "We have a lot to arrange and to consider."

"Does your son know you're married?" Kuragin asked.

"Not yet. Why?"

"Well, you now have the chance to tell him." He tilted his head towards the door. Larry Grey had just arrived and went straight to the bar to order himself a drink.

"He looks a bit lost," Violet remarked dryly.

"Do you want to invite him?" Kuragin asked.

"I have a better idea," Isobel said. "I will join him."

"Darling, are you sure?" Dickie asked, fearing Isobel was about to do something she would regret sooner than she thought.

"Oh, absolutely," she answered. "Don't worry, I won't be long."

Worried Dickie watched his newly-wedded wife approaching his son.

"There you are!" Isobel said when she had reached the bar. "I was looking for you."

Larry almost choked on his drink. "Forgive me, but I doubt that."

"Believe it or not, I am quite pleased to see you. It makes me the one to tell you."

He eyed her suspiciously, "Tell me what?"

"That your father and I got married this afternoon," she said with a wide smile on her face.

After he had recovered from his initial shock, Larry scoffed, "I guess congratulations are in order, but I won't call you Mother."

"You don't have to, but from now on, you will show me the respect you've been lacking the last couple of years - especially because I will be the one to raise your child."

"Have you finished?"

"Not quite. From now you'll show your father the same amount of respect or otherwise I will make sure, your inheritance will pass over to someone else. A title is a nice thing to have, but we know it won't feed you when it comes to it."

"Is that a threat?" he asked.

"It's a promise. And now you can join us and celebrate with us or you can get drunk here all by yourself. Your choice."

She turned on her heels and rejoined the others. Undecided what to do Larry remained at the bar. Lost in his thoughts he ordered himself another drink.

"What did you tell him?" Dickie asked nervously once Isobel was sitting again.

"I gave him something to think about," Isobel replied with a smile.

"Will he join us?" Violet asked while she watched him gulping a large whiskey.

"I doubt it," Isobel said. "But that doesn't really matter, does it?"

It didn't matter. Dickie took her hand, placed a kiss on it, and raised his glass for another toast.

"To family."

******The End******


End file.
